


Charon's Crossing

by 8_a_cheeseburger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Graphic Description of Sex, M/M, Organized Crime, Torture, graphic description of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2017-12-16 08:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8_a_cheeseburger/pseuds/8_a_cheeseburger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, a freelance journalist and photographer, finds himself swept into the dark, lustful underbelly of the city's criminal world. Now the only thing left to decide is sink or swim. Neither seem like a good option.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dark fic with extreme violence, language, graphic content, and non-con. May be triggering for some. Sterek. Mob/Gangster AU. Some characters may be a bit different to fit the storyline, but i'll do my best to keep them as true as I can. Unbetta-ed so sorry for any grammatical mistakes. Inspired by 'You Are My Loveprize in Viewfinder'. If you don't like it, please make use of the arrow pointing left that is conveniently located in the top bar of your browser window and have a nice day. 
> 
> Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1

  
“Shit. Shit. _Shit!_ Not good. How the hell did that creep even see me?” Stiles rasped to himself as he burst through the emergency exit on the rooftop. Then again, he had walked into the lion's den willingly, choosing a poor time to snap a quick shot of a suspicious meeting in one of New York's most prominent night clubs.

Sharp, panicked breaths slid through his teeth as he frantically scanned the rooftop for _any_ possible way out of this disastrous situation. The patter of expensive shoes filled with brute bodies began to crest behind him. The idea of simply jumping off the building rather then be tortured and killed ran through his head. Sweeping his eyes across the ledge, he caught the rusted metal bars of a staircase, and without hesitation he skidded towards them.

Peering over the edge, he forced himself to ignore the double flip his stomach did at the sight of a 30ft drop. A series of shifty looking pipes ran down the side of the building about two stories, it wasn't much, but it was something.

“Nowhere to run to now Mr. Stilinski,” a familiarly cocky voice lolled out with amusement. Stiles neck winged painfully at the force he used to spin around and face his assailant. Five black suited men, obviously thugs, circled out from behind Hale. Stiles almost wanted to scoff at the Men in Black look-a-likes, but bit his tongue in order to avoid a bullet to the head. Leading the charge was non other then the grey suited co-CEO of Hale industries, his trademark smirk all but tattooed onto his face.

“Give me the memory card, and I might let you go.” His voice was deadly smooth, eyebrow slightly cocked and hands casually in his pockets. The tone sent cutting tremor up his spine. It was the tone of a man void of societal morals, and a paper thin respect for the law. Knowing very well Hale was not to be screwed with, Stiles held his ground and made no move to give his plan away. He needed to bide his time. Wait for the ' _opportune moment_ ' as Jack Sparrow had said.

Stiles quickly snorted and threw his best shit eating grin at the man. He could play ball.

“Or what? You'll send your goonies after me? And you only said you'd let me go, who know's what you'll do to me before that, Hale. Besides, who said I'd go with you?”

This only seemed to boost the predatory glint in Hale's eyes. Something else seemed to flash in the man's eyes, but Stiles played it off as a trick of the light and ignored it.

“Cocky for a kid with no place to go. Though you could always jump. Much less painful. Even if you did manage to get away, next time I don't think I'll be feeling so generous. Take the deal.” He held out his hand expectantly, waiting for Stiles to place the memory card directly into his palm. Stiles even got a charming smile thrown in to his 'deal'. Stiles only smirked in return.

“Sounds like a good plan, Pete-my-man. I think I'll take you up on that offer,” he deadpanned, spinning on his heal and throwing himself over the ledge. Four of the five suited men let out a gasp, and lunged forward to try and stop him. Peter Hale stood unmoving with a smirk.

“Sir,” one of his men shouted, “He's making his way down the piping towards the fire escapes. Should we cut him off in the ally?”

“No. Let him go,” Peter ordered, spinning around and heading back towards the stairwell.

“So he jumped after all,” Peter grinned with fondness and surprise, “Welcome to the game, Mr. Stilinski. I think this might be fun.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
' _ **Fuck** , that was close!_' Stiles slid down the piping until he reached a nearby fire escape and quickly made his getaway. The instant his feet made contact with the pavement, he whipped into parkour mode, lunging over just about every fence he came into contact with and darting between allies with a shameful amount of experience. His brain didn't remotely register breathing until he was about two blocks form his apartment complex.

His feet finally skid to a stop, sweat beading down his forehead. Glancing around, he didn't see anyone following him. The streets were reasonably empty, and he only got one or two glances from pedestrians making their way back from the local bars. Adrenaline still coursed through his system, but he could feel it on it's last legs.

“No more building diving, Stiles. Yeah?” he panted harshly, resting his back on a nearby wall. Luckily he wasn't an asthmatic, or he would have been royally screwed. Thick, burning gulps of air burned his lungs as he did his best to catch his breath. He stood there for at least five minuets trying to calm his nerves.

Subconsciously, his hand found the phone nestled in his back right pocket, and he dialed without even glancing down. It took one and a half rings before the voice on the other end came in horribly loud and clear.

“Stiles!?” A panicked voice all but yordled into his ear. Stiles even had to jerk the phone away to keep his ear drum from bursting. “ _What the hell man?!_ Are you okay? You just took off without warning! Are you seriously that _stupid?_ You scared the living shit out of me. I though Hale had you black bagged. You just took your camera out _in the middle of the fucking room_ , and thought no one would see?!”

“Whoa, slow down man. I'm okay. Fit as a fiddle, and pictures in hand,” Stiles gloated, staring at the small black bag hanging off his shoulder. Despite his parkour Batman maneuvers, the camera seemed relatively unaffected by the whole ordeal.

“I swear to god if there's a god damned scratch on my camera, I'll kill you.”

“Would I really do that to my best friend? Come on Hercules, we've been buds since elementary. Don't you trust me? What about all those years of screwing with coach and blaming it on Greenberg? We were a dream team duo. Or that time you got so sick, you threw up all over your bedroom and I had to clean it up? I swear to god the house smelled for at lest three weeks. Or, or, the time you went joy riding when you were fourteen and ran out of gas and I had to sneak out and bring you gasoline.” A disapproving sigh came out in response.

“Stiles, that was your idea, and you didn't have to sneak out, you had to sneak back inside without your father finding out. Which he did anyways.” Stiles laughed fondly at the memory, running his hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “But you didn't answer my question. Is the camera okay?”

“Okay?! It's fine. Absolutely fine. So fine, it would make J-lo look average.” His only response was an irritated sigh on the other end of the line. “Okay, well.....define scratch?” A blaring dial tone met his ears, and he let out an fond chuckle.

By the time he reached the apartment, his legs wobbled unsteadily, and there was a dull ache in his arms that would most certainly make tomorrow a living hell. To top it off, he lived on the top floor in a building that was too old to have an elevator.

Rust from the pipes and fire escape stained his hands and ran along places his skin had brushed against its frame while maneuvering down it. He attempted to brush his palms against his shirt, but gave up after his hands started to burn from the strain. God, he needed a shower and at least two days of sleep.

At the thought, he turned the knob to find it unlocked, and his roommate on the other side with a cocked eyebrow and lips pressed into an unimpressed line.

“Honey, I'm home,” Stiles sang, blowing Matt a kiss and throwing his arms open for a hug. Of coarse, he only got a head shake as his roommate all but ripped the black bag from his shoulder.

“Oh come on, Matt! Not even a hello. I thought you said you were worried.” Matt only scoffed and made his way into the kitchen. Stiles would have been worried, but he knew better. Letting out a long sigh he collapsed onto the couch.

“Alright dumb-ass, what do you want for dinner. It's my night.”

“Oh god,” Stiles groaned, “I should've just let the fall kill me.”

Matt either didn't hear him, or ignored him. As per usual.

By some miracle, there was absolutely nothing in the house to eat, unless both of them were up to having frozen peas and old coffee. Pizza was ordered and Stiles made his way to the bathroom to clean himself up.

After a good twenty eight minuets of just standing in the hot water, and two of actual washing, Stiles was out of the shower with a fresh towel wrapped around his waist. Now that he was washed and safe, the tug of sleep had already started to make his moves sluggish and sloppy.

“Pizza's up!” Matt called from the living room. Fortunately for Stiles, he was a simple creature, and the idea of food perked up his body and he happily made his way to the beautiful box of delight. Matt had already grabbed two slices and was flipping through the channels.

Stiles grabbed a slice, not bothering with a plate, and all but stuffed it down his throat. He was onto his second piece by the time his ass made contact with the couch.

The remote hit the table, and either Matt had found what he wanted, or just given up when he turned to him.

“Alright, Stiles. What he hell happened.” Swallowing the massive mouthful currently poking out of his mouth, Stiles regaled the tale of what had exactly happened. He may have exaggerated a few details, like how there were twenty instead of five thugs, and the building was suddenly 70 feet high instead of 30. When he'd finally finished, Matt candidly stared at him.

“Dumbass,” he retorted, shifting to face the TV. Stiles mouth fell agape in mock hurt. It was a pretty kick ass story, if he did says so himself. Settling into the couch, he felt the tug of sleep return with full force.

“Did you even-” Matt's question faded out as he glanced over to see Stiles completely passed out. Chuckling, he stood and grabbed a nearby blanket to lay across him. “You _would_ make it so I have to clean up again.” Matt whispered to himself with a grin, making to pick up the small mess of soda, napkins, and paper plates.

Just another typical day.

  
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When Stiles came to the next day, his body had somehow oozed off the couch head first in a notable contortionist act. No really, Cirque de Sole could have hired him with that move. He had a prime view of the layers of dust and forgotten soda cans that had rolled under their coffee table, and a crick in his neck that he'd be feeling for at least two days. Attempting to push himself up, he let out a pained moan. Everything hurt.

“Yeah, definitely no more building diving.” With an exorbitant amount of strain, he managed to pull himself into a standing position.

Every muscle in his body seemed to spasm painfully. Hell, even his eye lids seemed to hurt.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Matt chuckled, standing over Stiles with a coffee in hand. Stiles quickly aborted the idea to get up, and oozed off the couch and made his way into a sitting position on the ground.

"What time is it?" His voice was cracked and dry with sleep as he scrubbed his hands across his face.

"Just after one. I would have woken you up, but you looked wrecked. How about next time you try not to piss of powerful mafia members? Yeah?" Stiles grunted in return and flicked him off. "Oh, and Argent wants your story in by tomorrow."

"God," Stiles groaned, head falling back onto the couch seat, "The man's a slave driver."

"But he's a slave driver with a deep pocket and a soft spot for an obnoxious lanky kid," Matt smiled back at him, taking another sip of his coffee. Begrudgingly, Stiles made his way to his feet, trotted off to grab a cup of the hot stuff, and sat at his computer for some man to machine work time.

After about seven hours straight of sorting through photos and typing up his draft, he sent it off to Argent.

"Done!" he called out to the ceiling, fists pumping in the air.

Matt had finished the day before and was out on another shoot to get ahead of his deadline for next week. Spinning around in his chair, he tapped his fingers aimlessly and scanned the room for something to do. He lasted about one minuet of sitting before he sprung up and headed towards the kitchen.

While passing Matt's desk, he somehow managed to knock about half of the contents on the desk onto the ground, two boxes and a bag going with them. Grumbling, he leaned down to pick up his mess and hope Matt wouldn't notice. He had a bit of a peeve with other people messing with his things.

He'd managed to get the paperwork and film canisters back in their place in a decently quick amount of time before he glanced down at some of the contents in the boxes. A smaller box had rolled out and the lid had popped off. Inside where small baggies filled with a green powdery substance. Stiles eyes went wide and he gritted his teeth. Matt was in deep shit when he got home.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After about three hours of waiting, Matt finally rolled into the apartment, a few groceries in his hands.

"Hey Stiles, I picked up the juice and curly fries you aske-," Matt stopped mid sentence when he saw Stiles sitting in the recliner, shoulders hunched, and gaze on the four baggies of green powered spread on the table. He looked up and met Matt's gaze. "What the hell?! I told you to stay the fuck out of my stuff!" Matt's voice was raw with fury, as he all but slammed the groceries onto the floor, juice oozing from the bags.

"I though you said you'd stopped doing this shit! What the hell?!" Stiles shouted back, shooting up out of his chair.

"It's none of your god-damned business, Stiles!"

"None of my business?! **_The fuck it isn't!_** This shit makes you hallucinate and has caused about three percent of people on it to go bat shit crazy and attack anything they find. To top that off, they don't even fucking realize what they did when they sober up! This is what we're tracking down in our investigation, and you're on it?! Do you know how much shit you would be in if they found you with it?!" By this point, Stiles was all but nose to nose with Matt, who was glaring dangerously at him.

"You don't know anything, Stiles."

"Hell I don't! This kanima shit is no joke. And that on the table right there," his finger jerked to stab at the table, "That's nothing compared to the _four massive bags_ in the boxes by your desk. That's way more then one person can do." Stiles paused, waiting for a response, but Matt's eyes wouldn't meet his. "Are you a dealer?" he whispered out.

"Fuck off Sheriff," Matt spat out, shoving Stiles backwards. Red flashed across Stiles eyes and a volcanic rage ran through is veins. Instantly, Stiles was across the room and thrusting his fist into Matt's face. Matt went down on the spot, but quickly recovered and knocked Stiles' feet from under him and was wailing on him. It only took two punches to the gut and one to the face for Stiles to get a leg over Matt and pin his wrist to the floor.

" _Don't you fucking-dare say that again_. He was as much your father as mine, and I know he taught you better," Stiles' voice was no more then a hiss. Matt's body stopped thrashing and Stiles stood up. Matt rose after him, neither meeting the other's gaze.

"Shit, I didn't mean….Look, I can't- It's not-" Matt grunted out, unable to finish his thought, and threw a hand over his face.

"Look Matt, if you've gotten yourself into a bad situation, i won't tell-"

"You have no idea what you're sniffing in, Stiles. These guys are bad news. Don't meddle in things you shouldn't," Matt's voice was oddly dark, and his glare stung with venom. Stiles eyes went wide, and he stared back at his friend in silent shock. Quickly as it came, the poison in Matt's eyes was gone, and was replaced with the gentle gaze he was use to. "Look, Stiles. I just don't want to see you get hurt. You're all I've got."

There was a long pause between the two of them before Stiles let out a breath, his hand rubbing the spot Matt had hooked him.

"You're all i've got too you know. I can't lose you. Just tell me you'll stop. Get rid of it, and stop."

Matt grinned softly and nodded. Stiles gave him his trademark smile, though a bit dimmer then usual, and clapped him on the back.

"Alright, Hercules. Let's go grab dinner." They left the apartment and headed off towards town, Stiles sneaking a suspicious glance towards his friend.

He didn't bring it up again.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Two weeks passed without incident. Business ran as usual, two weddings and a Bar Mitzvah on the side. Stiles had even managed to score himself a decently hot date with a guy he'd met at one of the weddings. Definitely a perk of his job. He waltzed into his apartment with a goofy grin on his face. Matt was seated at his desk, aimlessly tapping away at the keys with his music humming quietly on the speakers.

Stiles popped his head in the fridge, lazily looking for something, finding nothing. After about a minuet, he opened the door again with lower standards and settled for the leftover pasta he'd made last night. Stealing a fork from the dishwasher, he flopped down into the chair at his desk and spun about while stuffing his gob with cold noodles.

“Hey Stiles, my guys tell me there's a deal going down tonight at the docks. The same place we were last week. I've got a lead on the other side of town, will you take this one?” Matt called over his shoulder. Stiles feet came to a stop and his shoulders slouched.

“Awe, come on man! I have a date tonight,” Stiles moaned, the almost empty container of spaghetti thumping against his desk.

"You owe me one for that gig I picked up for you last month, come on. I just need a few shots of a small deal going down. I'd go, but I have another lead across town. Part of that drug trafficking case. Come on, please Stiles?"

"What?! That was totally me! You had a date with Argent's daughter, and I took your case!" Stile's protested, all but shooting out of his chair.

"Yeah, and what about those two times you almost missed your shots because you slept in or were nursing a hangover? Or the times i've sent Argent my stories to fill in for yours because you almost missed the deadlines? Or the time in my back yard when you hit me in the face with a branch and I lied to my parents so you wouldn't get in trouble?" Matt threw a knowing look at Stiles, ready to shoot off numerous more occasions.

“Ugg. _Fine!_ I hate when yo blackmail me.” Stiles spun around and pelted a crumpled piece of paper at Matt's head.

Matt didn't grace him with an answer and continued to type into his computer.

“The deal is at 10, and it's your night for dinner. I want chinese.”

"I hope you choke on a wonton."

  
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Soundlessly, Stiles slipped into a hidden position on the rooftops by the docks. Begrudgingly, he grumbled to himself that he could be getting laid right now instead of curled up on a dirty roof by some rusty pipes. His eyes came up to his viewfinder as he scanned the ground below for his subjects. After a few minuets, suited figure emerged from the shadows and all but strutted across the empty lot. An uneasy feeling settled in Stiles stomach as he saw no one coming to meet the figure. When he focused in and sucked in a breath of horror. Derek Hale.

“What the hell is he doing here?” he hiss to himself. Just then, Derek's gaze snapped to location as if he had heard him, and he smirked. Stiles dropped the camera like it was acid, letting it thunk against his chest painfully. Something was wrong.

“I might ask you the same question,” a voice cooed behind him. Hands roughly grabbed him by the shoulders and wrenched Stiles around. It was dark, but Stiles could make out three men. Two holding him and one in front of him. He didn't recognize a single person.

“What he hell, let me go!” Stiles attempted to wrench his arms from their hold, but quickly discovered the men holding him were impossibly strong. A breath ghosted across his ear, sending a jolt of shock and terror through his chest.

“Good evening Mr. Stilinski. Isn't this a pleasure.”

Peter fucking Hale.

A cloth pressed against his mouth and his world spun until everything went black.

  
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His consciousness came back in pieces. First, he felt his hands tied behind his back and a blindfold over his eyes. Second, he registered that he was sitting in a chair, and an uncomfortable on at that, in some kind of damp room. Thirdly, he heard a second set of breathing across from him.

“Good evening, Mr. Stilinski. Pleasure to see you again," Peter's tone was smug and cocky as ever. The sound of shoes shifting against a rough surface blared in his ears, what was that, concrete? Maybe he was in a warehouse, or a basement. It had to be somewhere gloomy and shifty, it's where they took people to… Oh crap, he was gonna' die.

"Not quite yet," Peter chuckled, Stiles obviously having said the end of that thought out loud.

"What do you want, Hale? You do realize i'm a confident of the police force, one of the best reporters for The Leak, and I have a brother who works for both? "

"Clucky for a kid who's been tied up and blindfolded. Firstly, you know we can make it look like a horrible accident happened to you, and you're not the only one with friends in high places. I know a certain chief commissioner who's friends with the two most generous donors at the annual charity gala. As for your little paper,we could buy them out in a heartbeat if we wanted, but it always makes business a bit more entertaining. And besides that, they won't be too terribly choked up about it. After all 'Peter Parker' is two people instead of one." A small stone of doubt dropped in Stiles' stomach as the words hit bottom.

"Matt won't give up on me. He's not an idiot," the statement was more of a reassurance to him, then it was a deterrent to Peter. He only heard an entertained chuckle, practically hearing Peter's head shake.

"You think i'm worried about a twenty year old kid with a camera and a fondness for The Green?" Stiles eyes grew wide. He knew about Matt's Kanima? "Don't look so surprised. Your _'brother'_ has the subtlety of a whale in this industry. It's almost like he doesn't even try to hide it which makes it extremely boring to track, might I add. That boy is about as interesting as the finance meetings I'm forced to go to," Peter's voice twisted into an almost childlike whine, but he quickly turned his bond villain back on, "I know everything, so if you think he's the best leverage for you being released, think again. But it was an admirable effort, really," Peters voice mocked.

"You still didn't answer my question. Why am I here?"

"You should know better then to poke the wolf. Didn't your parents teach you better? I'm a very powerful man, and business is business. You just happened to be getting in my way a few too many times," Peter tsked him chide fully, and Stiles couldn't help but grind his teeth at the tone.

"I though you said you liked the 'excitement' of it. Besides, how the hell did you even know where to find me?" He received a hearty laugh at that comment.

"You're not the only one with informants across the city. The game you play lives on a double edged sword." Footsteps clicked towards him at a slow, measured pace and his heartbeat sped a bit.

"So why am I still here? Aren't you going to off me? Black bag me in the river? Melt my body in acid? Or would you rather go all Hannibal on me and chop me into little pieces so you can save me for dinner?"

"You have quite the vivid imagination, Mr. Stilinski," Peter's smirk all but burned into his skin, "And i'll take you to my secret lair where we all wear white zoot-suits and matching fedoras while reciting the lines from The Godfather. Come on, Stiles, you've read too many comic books. I have far more class then that."

Stiles pointedly ignored the statement, and bit back a snapping retort. There was a moment of absolute silence, and Stiles tried not to focus on the twisting anxiety in his stomach and the ever quickening pulse in his chest. Something sharp found it's way to the bottom of his neck and he sucked in a panicked breath.

"We are much more dangerous then any movie star or comic book villain. We don't give long speeches before we kill someone, and we don't wait for your last words. I, however, do occasionally bend the rules to make the game a bit more fun. The thrill of the kill. But understand that at any moment, you could be dead, and I won't feel remorse. Hell, I'll probably sleep better."

"Then what am I here for? You've obviously given me a monolog that would put Cats to shame, so what do you want me for?" The sharp blade at his neck disappeared and he heard the man in front of him shift slightly with a chuckle.

"You intrigue me, Stiles. And I think I want to have a bit of fun with you. I'd like to test a theory of mine." Stiles stomach sank as various scenarios ran through his head. He pulled futilely at the handcuffs around his wrists and shifted his feet. If he could distract Peter long enough, he could find a way out of the cuffs. His life as a Sheriffs son didn't go waisted on him. He was the master at getting out of handcuffs. "I wouldn't struggle if I were you, you'll only bruise your wrists." Peter's voice was shockingly close and Stiles jolted a bit in surprise.

Stiles made to open his mouth and snap back a smart-ass retort, but a hand flew to his mouth and a small object fell into his mouth.

"Swallow," Peter ordered. Stiles felt around with his tongue to identify what had just been crammed into his mouth. It was small and round, and had a horrible flavor. A pill? Instinctively, he made to spit the thing out, but Peter's hand prevented even a crack of air from getting through. Jesus, he was strong. With an irritated sigh, Peter used his other hand to hold Stile's nose.

"Swallow. You're only making this more difficult for yourself." The hold on his mouth was firm and unforgiving, and Stiles did his damnedest to resist. But eventually, his lungs screamed for air and he swallowed the pill begrudgingly. Peter immediately released him, and air couldn't find his lungs faster.

"Good boy," Peter praised, patting Stiles on the head.

"What…the-hell…was…," Stiles panted, jerking his head out of Peter's reach.

"Don't worry. The effects shouldn't kick in for at least another two hours."

"Well at least that means i've got another two hours," he mumbled to himself. Peter surprised him with a hearty laugh. How had he even heard that?

"Oh, I like you."

A creaking sounded off in the distance, Stile's body tensing to the point of physical pain. "Late to the party as always," Peter drolled, footsteps distancing.

The blindfold was suddenly ripped from his face and he squinted to ready himself for blinding interrogation lights like in the movies. Unfortunately, only an unsettling darkness greeted him. There were a series of clicking sounds, and flickering from various lights hanging from the ceiling. When Stiles said lights, he meant a series of three or four rusty pendant lights scattered about the surprisingly large space.

Not far off from him where two figures, one he recognized as Peter Hale. The second, was his nephew and co-CEO of Hale Industries, Derek Hale. Black covered him from head to toe, his suit made of the finest materials. Not that that was a problem for the Hale family. Their company had a finger in just about every pot of the economy. You name it, they most likely made, sold, or owned it.

When seeing both Hales standing side by side, a wave of authority and danger radiated off them. They were the pinnacle of power and wealth in New York, and they were walking towards him. Great.

Peter all but swaggered towards him, Derek brooding ahead of him with firm strides. The youngest Hale stared down at him with a calculating glare.

"I half expected glitter with that little demonstration. David Bowie would be proud," Stiles smirked, chin jutting out in front of him. Derek's expression stood stone against his comment, eyes boring into his. "Wait, if you two are over there, who the hell pulled off my blindfold?" Craning his neck as far back as he could, he saw one of Peter's thugs behind him. When had he gotten there?

"He's still alive."

"Well spotted, Derek. You could be the next Sherlock Holmes with that deductive reasoning," Peter not-so-subtly mumbled. Peter reached out and gripped his chin. "I want him. He's entertaining. Besides, I need a rat to experiment my new product on before I sell it."

"You're a sick fuck, grampa. I'll make your life a living hell," Stiles growled, ignoring the pressure on his chin increase, " I was born with the ability to annoy. It comes to me like breathing."

"I'm not worried, Stiles." Now it was Stiles turn to grin.

"You asked for it. On average, people breathe at least twelve to eighteen times per minuet. And the life span of a taste bud is about ten days. Oh, and did you know that circumcision is good idea for men who don't wash there junk regularly? You look like you might want to consider it. First they estimate the amount of foreskin that has to be removed, then cut it opened to show the glands underneath. Then they inner lining is bluntly sliced away from the glands. A device is placed on the area until the bleeding stops. Fascinating stuff really. I can keep going if you want? Next, the foresk-," a hand was immediately clamped down over his mouth, Peter's glare piercing his innocent stare.

"You've made your point. Keep it up and the gag comes out." Peter let out an exaggerated sigh before letting out a disgruntled hiss as teeth clamped down on his skin. Pulling away, he gripped his hand. "The little shit _bit_ me!" Stiles spit dramatically.

"Dude, your hand tastes awful. Do you even bathe? And as for the gag, I didn't know you swung that way old man. I guess we're half way there with the handcuffs though."

"You always did have fantastic taste, Peter," Derek added dryly from the sidelines. Peter glared back.

"I guess it's a family trait then, Derek?" Something akin to a growl escaped Derek's throat and he spun on his heel and stormed towards the warehouse door.

"Do what you want with him," Derek called from the distance as he slammed the metal door behind him. The laugh that came next sent a foreboding shiver up Stiles' spine.

  
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He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, but after Derek had left, Peter simply pulled up a chair and sat down across from him. He didn't utter a word, body still as stone, and eyes glued to Stiles. It felt like hours had passed, but it could have only been ten minuets. Gritting his teeth in agitation, he wrenched at his handcuffs.

"Alright, just get on with your damned plans already. God, if you're gonna' kill me just do it. Anything is better then sitting here staring at your ugly mug," Peter gave him a wanton smirk.

"Forty-five minuets. I'm impressed you lasted this long with a mouth like yours. But, I do aim to please, so this is how this is going to go…"

  
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The world was spinning like a top and his head felt like someone had stuffed four fields worth of cotton through his ears. The handcuffs had been taken off awhile ago, and he mildly remembered being pushed into the back of a car with two suited men. There may have been an elevator at one point, but at the moment, he was being carted through a dim hallway that felt like it was about fifty feet underground. That or the architect that built the place didn't believe in windows. It seemed to be a pattern with this group. What were they, vampires?

A sharp screeching pulled his attentions to a heavy metal door that was being pulled back. Unceremoniously, he was tossed into the room and landed harshly on the cold cement.

"Fuck," he mumbled, his body vaguely aware of the pain. The room was medium sized, about, and the ceiling was decently high. Two overhead lights hung above him, and there was something whirring in the distance. A generator?

Pulling himself up slowly, he managed to stagger into an upright position before the screeching of the metal door sounded again. When he looked up, it was completely dark where the door should be, and the room was tilting uncomfortably.

He took a wobbly step forward and stumbled a bit. There had to be some other way out. He thought back to all of the action thrillers he'd watched at two in the morning when he was too bored to sleep. They always found a way out.

"Think, Stiles." His voice was inaudible as he spoke to himself. What about the vents? Hell, they did it in Jurassic Park and just about every spy movie ever, so why not here. Stitch did it too, and look where it got him. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, to scout out some kind of airway. His gaze met a slew of pipes and steal beams, but his motivation to get out overpowered the sinking feeling in his gut that this was the basement of some kind of building, and the only way out was that horribly un-oiled door.

A growl sounded behind him and he immediately stiffened. He couldn't see anything in the room with him, so he quickly passed it off as a side effect of whatever the hell Peter had given him. Or maybe the machine that was thrumming in the distance, but it was most likely the damned drug.

 _'Sick bastard,'_ he grumbled in his head. He took another step forward, and the growl sounded again. This time closer and more dangerous.

This wasn't a human growl, this was more wild. More feral. This was the sound of a wild animal going for its kill. Thousands of scenarios ran through is head. Maybe they'd thrown him in with a lion. Or even a wild bear. They had bears around hear. Hell, it could be a dog with rabies for all he knew. Whatever it was, it didn't sound friendly. Spinning around, he locked eyes with two glowing red orbs.

" ** _What the fuck,_** " Stiles wheezed, taking a staggering step backwards. "It's the drugs. It's the drugs," he whispered vehemently to himself, hands gripping the sides of his head. The thing before him stalked towards him, back hunched and claws drawn. Stiles glanced back up and furrowed his brow. It was Derek Hale. But this one had hair running along the side of his face, claws, and razor sharp fangs protruding form his snarling mouth.

"It's not possible. This isn't real," he mumbled to himself again, taking an unconscious step backwards.

Derek crouched into a low stance, claws out and teeth glinting in the low light. Instinctively, Stiles flight gene kicked in, and he spun around and ran with as much speed as he could manage. He had absolutely no clue how he was getting out of the death box he was in now, but he was not sitting and taking whatever this Derek-thing was going to do to him. Another growl sounded before the shuffle of feet on the cement sounded, and instantly he was flat on the ground, breath knocked clean out of him. Dangerously sharp claws scraped his arms as they pinned him to the floor.

A nose was near his neck and Derek's scruff rubbed uncomfortably against his skin.

"Get the fuck off me!" Stiles screamed the moment he found his breath. His shifted uselessly under the iron grip, the fog still clouding his brain. A heavy growl rumbled sharply above him. Without warning, Derek's body pressed flush against Stiles, not an hairs breath between them. Something wet ran along the side of his neck, and teeth stabbed dangerously at the skin.

"What are you doing?!" Stiles' voice was in hysterics, his breathing borderline hyperventilation. The tong continued to lick down his neck and into the junction of his shoulder and neck. His body wiggled in another futile attempt to escape Derek's hold, but instantly stilled when he felt a distinct pressure behind him. His stomach dropped. "Oh god no," he rasped.

Derek waisted no time, claws mercilessly cleaving at the fabric, bits of Stiles skin with it. A scream ripped from his throat as he tried to scamper away, but his legs were pinned by Derek's. His cloths were off in seconds, the claws making tatters of his coat and shirt. The deep cuts that ran along his body start to bleed with a stinging vengeance. His head spun like a top, giving him a sense of vertigo that slowed his writhing, a mix of Peter's drugs and the onslaught of pain. Derek lifted off of him and the distinctive sound of a zipper sounded behind him. There was only a second of silence before more ripping sounded as his jeans were torn off of him. Nothing slowed like the stories talked about. There wasn't a slow motion pause where he could process the situation. Only panic. Shit, what would Matt think when they found his body. What would his father-

By this point, tears were streaming down Stile's face and his breaths were coming in panicked, uneven heaves. Two hands grabbed his hips and lifted them into the air, and without warning he was mercilessly entered. A searing shot of pain like a white hot poker shot through the haze of the drug, and he let out a blood curdling scream. His cheek scraped against the ground as his hands scratched viciously at the ones on his hips. Derek ignored him, to feral to notice, and thrust into him ruthlessly. Another blood curdling scream echoed through the room. It seemed to go for hours before the smacking of skin stopped and the nails on his hips dug in deeper.

When he finally released, Stiles' throat was raw and his voice was cracked. His body was shaking and his sobs came out noiselessly. The red in Derek's eyes faded and he pulled out of him with lightening speed causing Stile's to flop ungracefully onto the cement floor. A noiseless scream blew through his ragged throat as he landed on his back, scrapping the deep lacerations Derek carved into him when shredding his cloths.

Stiles eyes found Derek's, and all he could make out was the look of shock and disgust in the man's eyes. Stiles didn't have the energy to be confused. For a moment, Derek's hand reached out to do something, but he quickly snapped it back to his side and hardened his gaze. Without a single word, he disappeared into the darkness, the metal hinges sounding for a third and finial time.

Stiles didn't move, he couldn't move even if he'd wanted to. He just lay there, limp as a rag doll, cuts bleeding freely, and fresh cocktail of blood and semen dripping down his thighs.

At some point he must have passed out, because when he opened his eyes again, he was staring at a white ceiling and there was light coming form a nearby window. Shifting slightly, he found himself in a bed underneath decently expensive covers. A dull throb sounded in his head as he remembered what had happened.

His hands found his arms as the events of last night replayed in his head with a violent reverence. When his knees came to his chest, he glanced down, and confusion flashed across his face. He was still in his jeans. They weren't torn to shreds. Hell, they looked almost better then when he'd gotten here. He even had his shirt on still. Throwing the sheets off his legs, he dug through his pockets. The receipt from the chinese place was still in his pocket along with his wallet and two balls of lint.

Looking down at his arms, he found no marks. Only a slight rash and bruise from where his handcuffs had rubbed him when he tugged on them. Cautiously, he moved his arms behind him, and found that his back was clear too. There was a slight ache in his muscles, but other then that he was fine. It was as if last night hadn't even happened.

What the hell was going on?

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I won't put any more notes above my chapters. It's just not really my thing. But I wanted to say thanks to everyone who reviewed, bookmarked, subscribed, etc. You guys rock my socks off! And I wanted to also put it out there that I have no idea when my updates will be, but I can tell you they will not be consistent as i'm just writing this for my own sick pleasure, and deadlines freak me out. So story + deadline = no fun for me. Just wanted to give you the heads up. 
> 
> Secondly, I wanted to have it kept in mind that this is only inspired by the Finder series, so things will be tweaked, shuffled, deleted, added, loaded with steroids and so on.  
> and lastly (the most boring part) i forgot my disclaimer
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any rights to Teen Wolf or the Finder series, all ownership goes to its respective creators. 
> 
> P.S. writing this chapter was a bitch. I couldn't motivate myself to do it. (i write this story in bits and splurges, writing different parts here and there, so I have to go back and fill in the holes. Some bits you won't see for maaaany many chapters, others are packed into this one.) And in compensation for taking so long to write this chapter, i've put up chapter three as well. 
> 
>  
> 
> Alrighty, enjoy

CHAPTER 2

 

  
"Has the _problem_ been dealt with?"

"Yes. Everything's been….handled."

"It had better be. It'll be your head on the block if you're wrong."

"Hey, I helped you get standing roots in this town. Without me to throw off your scent, you'll have the cops swarming your operation."

"Yeah, and because of you, there's a nosy reporter kid sniffing around."

"And because of me, the threat has been taken care of."

"Then how come one of my boys told me that that same nose-wiping reporter was seen being dragged into a car by Hale's men? If that kid so much as squeaks about us, you'll have more to worry about then just keeping the cops off your tail."

"It's been taken care of."

"One wrong move, and you'll find yourself with a barrel to that quick mouth of yours. I don't leave loose ends."

"Understood."

  
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The room he was in was decently sized, and tastefully bare. It was equipped with the essentials, bed, dresser, side tables, lamps, and a mirror. The floor was an ashen oak and the warm numeral walls were accented by a single wall of a dark brown that reminded Stiles of coffee grounds. Everything was extremely modern and sleek, tables and bed low to the ground and decor flowing with a sense of feng shui.

Pulling back the plush white comforter, he pulled himself onto his feet and putted about the room. The bathroom had no door, only an open rectangular frame that went straight to the ceiling. When Stiles looked in the mirror, he examined himself more closely. He lifted his shirt again for good measure and stared at the flawless pasty white underneath. Nothing.

 _'Then…it was the drug,'_ Stiles concluded, despite the small intuitive tug in his head that told him there was something missing. Something about what happened felt eerily real. Before he had time to think any harder on the topic, the door sounded and Peter Hale strutted into the room.

"Good morning Mr. Stilinski, pleasant night I assume?" Stiles didn't even need to ask why he was here. Of course he knew.

"Here to check up on your science experiment? Quit with the pleasantries. You've already kidnapped me, tied me up, and drugged me. Not to mention tried to sell me out as bait to your emotionally stunted nephew that could probably out brood a dead tree. Trust me, we're there."

"It's rather difficult to have an accountable experiment when your test subject passes out before anything happens," Peter retorted with irritation. So that was what happened.

"Well excuse me for not taking to the 'drug Stiles up with weird pills' plan like you'd hoped. Really, I'll put it on the top of my to do list for next time."

A fond grin flicked across Peter's face as he sat down on the bed.

"Alright then, straight to the chase. Why don't you tell me everything that happened Mr. Stilinski." Stiles glared at the hand that patted the spot next to Peter, and he raised his eyebrow with an unimpressed scowl. Instead, he plopped himself unceremoniously into the chair on the side of the room.

"Well, I don't really know what was doing what. It was all sort of a blur."

"Come on Stiles, don't play the amnesia card with me. What did you see, feel, smell, taste." There was a long pause, Stiles throat tightening up a bit at the memory.

"The room was spinning, and I had no sense of balance," he started, voice composed, but only so, "I had terrible reaction time, and an even worse sense of hearing." Peter nodded, tapping what must have been notes onto his phone.

"And what did you see?" Stiles didn't answer. Peter looked up from his phone and stared at the boy, "What did you see Stiles?" This time it was more of a demand then a question.

"I don't…I don't know." It was the honest truth. He had no idea what he had seen, but he did see something.

  
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Stiles stumbled through the door before him with a clumsy shuffle forward, deja vu washing over him. At least this time he wasn't in some dank cement basement with two or three exposed bulbs hanging about. This time, the pills he'd been forced to swallow didn't seem impede a single motor skill. To be honest, he felt perfectly normal aside from the knot tightening in his stomach at the job he was about to do.

_"I want you to test this drug to its fullest potential. You will go to my nephews room tonight, and you will service him however he sees fit. And when I say, 'however he sees fit', I mean absolutely any way. Don't look at me like that Mr. Stilinski. You have a bit of a reputation for your dedication to finding leads. It's said that you'll do just about anything. Oh, and I think you may just want to buy more jeans, the knees on those are looking a bit worn," Peter noted with a smirk while Stiles gritted his teeth silently._

_"Think of it as….a business exchange. My information, for your release. And as motivation, if you don't perform admirably, I think I may just let it slip about your friend and his little addiction problem. Matt was it?" Peter's voice was disturbingly pleasant while his gaze flickered a warning'_

God, how did he get himself into these situations. Moreover, how the hell was he suppose to get himself out?

Shuffling further into the room, he glanced about. He wasn't sure if this was Derek's apartment or just a room he was staying in for the night. The distinct scent of alcohol assaulted his nose. A bottle of scotch was set on the table, and more then half of it was missing.

"Peter sent you" a dark voice growled behind him, causing Stiles to lurch forward in shock. His pulse quickened and his hands started to shake as he turned around to face the stern face of Derek Hale. A half full glass of whisky sat precariously in his hands, while his other hand rested in his pocket. Authority and danger rolled off him in waves.

Unable to find his voice, Stiles could only stare back at the man in front of him. Derek glared back, his thick eyebrows low and unimpressed. With a quick step forward, he was in front of Stiles, hand gripping under his chin. A chuckle escaped his lips and his gaze flickered.

"Strip." Stiles sucked in an uneven breath at the cold sting in his tone. Everything he believed in went against it. His fists clenched and he jerked his chin from Derek's grip, earning him an even darker smirk.

"What, the walls? The carpet? You've gotta be more clear on these things. And besides, I don't think I have the right tools for that kind of job Mr. Hale, I'll have to leave to get them." A childlike elation ran though him as he saw Derek's teeth grind in annoyance.

The mans body leaned forward with a deadly scowl on his face. A firm hand gripped his jaw.

"Either you do it yourself, or I'd be glad to do it for you." Something metallic caught the low lighting as Derek brought a sharp object up to Stiles' chest.

"Fine. Yep. Got it. Message received," he hoarsely choked out, Derek lowering his blade with a satisfied stare.

 _'It's a business transaction,'_ he chanted in his head monotonously, hands unsteadily idling on the hem of his shirt. Derek moved to sit at the desk. Awkwardly, he tugged off his shirt and let it fall to the floor. When he looked back at Derek, the same unwavering gaze prickled his skin. The man inspected him like he would a new couch he was going to buy.

Derek lifted the glass of whisky, ice clinking against the sides, all the while his gaze glued to Stiles. An awkward embarrassment heated Stiles' face uncomfortably as he pulled down his zipper and tugged on the hem of his jeans. In a stiff combination of maneuvers, Stiles managed to pull off his pants without falling over and stumbling like an idiot. He could keep some of his dignity.

He jutted his chin out when he finished, standing as confidently as he could almost naked and in front of one of the most influential men in the country. At least he was wearing decent underwear, and by that he meant that at least his batman boxers were safely resting in the drawers in his room. His chin jutted out confidently and his eyes locked with the unreadable CEO. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Sure, he was on the pastier side of the paleness spectrum, but he had decent muscle tonnage from his running around the city and dodging body guards, dogs, angry wives, drunkards, and mafia members.

The glass thunked as it was set back down on the table.

"All of it." Managing not to jump at the sudden comment, Stiles stared back at Derek with defiance.

"No." A single thick eyebrow raised at him with a warning behind it.

"No? Do you need another demonstration?" Stiles stood immobile, feet all but glued to the floor. With a short huff, Derek leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. "Defiant, aren't we. Then how about a compromise? You can choose, come closer to me with your flimsy chastity belt, or strip and stay there."

Stalemate. Damn it. With balled fists, he shuffled forward until he was standing just beside where Derek sat.

"You were going to make me come over here anyways, why prolong the inevitable?" Derek's hands now rested under his chin, folded together thoughtfully while his eyes examined the boy. Without a word, his hand reached out and gripped Stiles arm, jerking him towards him.

Taken aback by the sudden assault of his person, Stiles had absolutely no time to catch himself as he came crashing into Derek's lap.

"Shit! Let go you sick pervert!" Stiles yelped, wriggling furiously in the iron grip. Jesus, this guy was strong. A warm hand quickly pulled him against a finely dressed body, resting firmly in the middle of his bare chest.

"You want this over as fast as possible, that much is clearly evident. So why don't we give Peter's little experiment the best possible beta test, hmm?" Stiles breath came in frantically as his pulse skyrocketed. Flashbacks from the last time ran though his head and he fought harder to get out of the grip. He didn't give two shits at the moment if it had been a hallucination or nightmare.

"Fuck this!" he shouted, elbow ramming into the torso behind him. Derek's arms moved inhumanly, restraining him and twisting him around to face him, unaffected by the blow. Within ten seconds Stiles was straddling the brooding CEO, his arms pinned together with one hand while the other rested on his leg.

"Why don't we make this a bit more fun of you Mr. Stilinski. How about a drink?" Not waiting for an answer, Derek raised the glass to Stiles' lips, which firmly pressed shut. Derek's lip twitched upwards as he tightened the grip on Stiles' wrists with intent to break. A sharp pain ran through his arm and Stiles let out an unintentional gasp. Without hesitation, Derek pored the mixture in his mouth, causing some of it to jump down the wrong pipes in Stiles' throat. A harsh sputtering followed, half of the mouthful running down his chin, and half making it down his throat. Derek raised the glass again with a pleased grin.

However, the second time around, Stiles was ready for the assault and Derek had only managed about half a sip before Stiles violently spewed the liquid into Derek's face. A grunt of displeasure ran through the man under him as the shocked green eyes sapped shut to protect themselves from the keen sting of alcohol.

"Go to hell," Stiles breathed, throat raspy from the sudden attack of whisky in his windpipes. Silently, Derek released the grip on Stiles' arms and wiped his face with his hand.

"This suit cost about double your annual rent." The voice had darkened considerably, and the playful glint in his eyes was gone. He loosened his tie and jerked it from his neck, and Stiles could have sworn he saw a flicker of red. Ignoring the sudden change, he thrust his fist out in front of him, hoping to slug the man in his jaw. Fight or flight. And in this case, in order to flight, he had to first fight.

Unfortunately for him, Derek was faster and caught his fist mid-punch, twisting it behind his back and slamming his body onto the desk top. Stiles' winced as his jaw cracked against the wood, and Derek yanked his other arm behind him while securing the two with the freshly shed tie.

A gruff whisper greeted his ear as Derek stubble scraped against his cheek bone.

"I always did love a fighter." A small round vile appeared in front of his nose, "Why don't we make this a bit more fun for the both of us?" The bottle was shoved under his nose, forcing him to inhale the familiar aroma.

 _'What, do all Hales just keep a damned vile of this shit in their pockets at all times?'_ Stiles grumbled to himself, experiencing slight déjà vu. His head was slightly muddled, his brain starting to go numb. Derek pulled him back down to his lap, back flush to his broad chest.

"What the hell was that," Stiles snarled, his mind starting to haze over.

"Have more." The whisky glass was pushed up to his mouth, forcing its way into his mouth. Stiles sputtered again as the drink burned his mouth and made his eyes water at the strength of it.

"Stop…burns" he gagged, whisky uncomfortably slicking his bare chest at his point. Surprisingly enough, Derek acknowledged him, and placed the glass down on the table. His hand quickly found its way to Stiles torso, resting firmly on his abdomen.

"Then how about some ice?" Something cold found its way into his mouth, Derek's fingers joining it. It was an uncomfortable mixture of hot and cold as the cubes swirled about his tongue, and he instinctively made to turn his head, but was held in place. His tongue flicked out in attempts to get rid of the offending appendages, but only managed to melt the ice further. The fog in his brain seemed to thicken and something else started building in his body. Whatever Derek had just given him was _nothing_ like what Peter had given him. A sharp heat started to build at his core, running through his veins and quickening his pulse.

The hand on his abdomen started to move lower, reaching his briefs and dipping under the hem.

"What're you d… _ng_ " Stiles groaned as a warm hand gripped him firmly. The slow, churning heat intensified and a clammy sweat broke out over his body.

"Hard already?" Derek teased as his hand started to pump teasingly. The fire in his body intensified, his skin crawling with sensation. A trembling breath mixed with an groan when Derek's grip tightened.

"Stop i-," he was cut short again when Derek's mouth started suckling the junction of his neck and shoulder. The hand on his jaw held his head in place while the fingers continued to move about in Stiles' mouth. A shudder racked his body when teeth grazed his skin.

"What was that Mr. Stilinski?" Derek murmured into his ear, voice spiked with amusement. His blood was boiling, the heat in his body almost unbearable. The flames licked at his veins with each pump of Derek's hand, sweat beaded from his pores as his cries mixed with moans. Through the haze of his mind, a small voice screamed and begged for it to end, but the pleasure running through him muted the thought and swept him away.

Pressure built in his cock as he came close to his end. Just as it rose to the surface, the hand stopped, and his eyes popped open in surprise. Heavy breaths slid through his teeth as his limbs trembled with tension. Stiles quickly came back to his senses and pushed through the haze of the drugs, valiantly ignoring the aching fire in his body.

"Get off!" he rasped, poising his feet to push him into a standing position. Derek's hand slid to his hip and held him in place, and the one on his chin moved to his chest.

"Your reputation precedes you," Derek mocked as Stiles did his best to get his breath back. A snarl ran through Stiles lips as he writhed and struggled in the iron hold. Sure, he'd gotten on his knees for an informant or two for information, but it wasn't a habit. Unfortunately for him, news travels, and he gained a bit of a reputation for is….methods. After that, he had to start carrying pepper spray and a taster to jobs in order to fend off the bolder clients.

"Fuck you!" he panted, now keenly aware of the bulge underneath him.

"I was thinking more the other way around," Derek hissed roughly. Acting on impulse, Stiles thrusted his head back so it collided with the mans face, and he was instantly let go when a gratifying crunch sounded behind his head. He made it about three unstable steps forward before a rough hand seized him by his bound arms and violently threw him across the room. His lungs seized on impact, knocking the wind clean out of him as he hit the floor. A white flash muddled his vision, while the jostling of his head only disoriented him more. Before he could regain his breath, Derek was on him again, and this time threw him onto the adjacent bed, pinning his hands above his head.

Stiles' eyes lolled about the room as he wheezed for air, forcing Derek to grip his chin to focus his line of vision. God, everything was spinning uncomfortably like a Tilt-A-Whirl. But he did see Derek's eyes, and they were dangerously dark. There was a quick motion, and Stiles expected a punch, or slap, or some form of pain, but instead tremors shook the lower half of his body. Furrowing his brows, his vision focused enough to see Derek chuckling above him.

"Good," he smirked, leaning down so his breath ghosted Stiles' lips, "Fight me." Stiles body was losing the battle against the drugs, and the exertion of going against Derek was taking its toll. Every cell in his body was tightly strung, and his skin almost had a sharp electric current.

"Fuck. You," Stiles panted, eyes cutting and angry. Nothing was focused, the blur in his vision intensifying ten-fold. Shit. Maybe he'd rammed against Derek's head harder then he'd thought. But with whatever was in his system and the stimulation in his body, he couldn't be sure. Hell, it might have even been the impact from when he'd been hurdled like a god damned discus across the room by Atlas over here. Wriggling and struggling weakly, Stiles continued to fight. It may not have been much, but damn it, it was something.

Then Derek rolled his hips, and Stiles head fell back at the sensation. Electric charges surged through his body and all but ripped his focus from him. It was a sensory overload of hazy pleasure and shock. The cock that had gone half limp from struggling surged back to life with a vengeance.

"Have any of your other _'business exchanges'_ been this exciting?" Derek rolled his hips again, dragging a gargled moan from the boy beneath him. The hips moved again with a swift, and jolting rotation. Words hung in Stiles throat and quickly devolved into senseless moans as Derek rocked his hips back and forth. The fabric of Derek's pants chaffed slightly against him, but the numbing pleasure of the movement forced Stiles to turn a blind eye to the discomfort.

For a quick moment, the pressure of Derek's body lifted from above him, leaving Stiles writhing against the sheets at the loss of contact. A hot fire coursed through his body, like someone injected boiling water into his veins and his heart had just run a marathon. His hands found their way to his chest, and he began to tear at his skin in hopes of removing the burn. Just as quickly as he disappeared, Derek was on top of Stiles again, his hands gripping at Stiles and moving them away from his abused chest.

In a fluid motion, Derek's now naked body rotated against Stiles and a sharp cry fell from his lips. Stiles hands fell to the sheets beneath him as Derek repeated the motion again and again until Stiles was a trembling, moaning mess. With a grin, Derek trailed his finger down to Stiles' hole and plunged inside. A breathless moan leaked from the boy as he pressed into the hand greedily.

"Eager, aren't we?" Derek taunted lowly into Stiles ear, earning another undignified moan from the boy. Another finger was inserted before Derek pulled away his hand and went in for the kill. His hips jolted forward mercilessly, Stiles crying out as Derek slid to the hilt. There was a grunt from the man as he adjusted to the comfortably tight hole before he started moving.

Unlike his entry, his pacing was teasing and agonizingly slow.

"More," Stiles slurred, hands grabbing at Derek's back. A chuckle sounded above him and Derek stopped all together.

"Beg me." The boy whimpered at the loss of motion and attempted to rock his hips, but Derek's hands held him in place.

"Please," he rasped, voice cracking, "please." His hand moved to his painfully stiff erection as he tugged on it himself in hopes of finding some relief. Derek watched him for a moment before moving his hands from Stiles hips to his cock to take over Stiles slopping attempt at jacking off. Without a word he darted his hips forward and began plunging in and out of the boy with extreme force. Screams of pleasure slurred together with grunts until Stiles was close to his end. Almost instinctively, Derek's hand quickened and his thrusts became more precise.

" _Stiles_ ," he groaned, and that was all it took for Stiles to fall apart. Stiles body shook as cum hit his stomach, his vision going white. Derek growled when Stiles clenched and followed close behind.

Derek fell beside him, lazily pumping Stiles cock while he remained inside of him. Their breath was quick, Stiles more so then Derek as his pulse was off the charts. Derek's hand slid up Stiles stomach as he pulled the limp body to his chest.

Through the haze of bliss, Stiles faintly heard the sound of his name bing called followed by a warm sensation in his lower body. Something began to stir inside him, and the fire that had gone away seemed to come back with a vengeance. He could feel Derek's already half hard cock still inside of him, and the hand around his own moved up and down teasingly.

"You can't sleep until I say you can," Derek whispered into his ear. Stiles hands moved to push away from Derek, but he was quickly caught and his wrists were pinned to the mattress. Derek shifted himself so that he was above Stiles again, the sensation sending a moan through the boy. Stiles felt his hands being tied above with a strip of fabric, and with a weak effort tried to get away. Derek simply tightened the tie he'd found beside the bed.

"Much better," he smirked, moving his lips down closer to Stiles body. Nipping and bitting at the skin as he move, Stiles body reacting immediately with the stimulation and the drugs. Within a minuet of licking and biting, Stiles was hard as a rock.

"Such a whore," Derek chuckled before plunging into him for a second time that night. Stiles only moaned in response.

Thrust after thrust, Stiles fell apart all over again. Each time he came, his body gave him only a few minuets of reprieve before firing up again. After the fifth time, Stiles lost count. He was floating on a cloud of numbness, pleasure, and pain.

Eventually, his body couldn't withstand the treatment, and he passed out.

  
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"So he got away." It was more of a statement then a question. Derek made no move to acknowledge his uncles presence. "And he left a note, how very thoughtful."

 **'Results invalid. Subject given additional stimulant. Sucks for you.'** Peter stared the piece of paper down with an arched brow and a seemingly detached expression. Clever.

"Now how could this have happened I wonder?" Again, Derek continued tapping away at his computer without an acknowledgment. . "I guess i'll have to re-do the entire experiment."

"No," Derek ordered, eyes sternly glued on the computer screen. "Find someone else."

"Oh," Peter cooed with a grin, "Don't like someone playing with your new toy?" Derek glanced up for a moment to give his uncle a warning glare. Peter put his hands up in surrender, then tucked them into his pockets. A pregnant pause hung in the hair, then Peter's grin turned sour and his expression stiffened, "There is, however, a situation we need to talk about."

  
\------------------------------------------

  
Barreling down the alleyways, Stiles slid through the ever familiar shadows and brick-ways. Adrenaline and a deep giddiness pumped through him, a grin beaming on his face.

When he'd woken up the next morning he found himself still in Derek's room, but fortunately without Derek in it. It had taken him at least an hour to stabilize his walking, but he was finally able to move decently well without falling over. Mind over matter. He snooped around the loft, poking and prodding to find some way to get out. The door was out of the question due to the black suited meathead guarding it.

Fortunately, he found a large vent in the bathroom and managed to squeeze himself through and travel through the small space without being caught. Before he'd left, he scribbled a quick note to Peter, keeping on his promise to report back so the bastard wouldn't come looking for him. Too bad for him he wasn't going to like the results. Stiles smirked at the thought.

After much maneuvering, he managed to find an unguarded hallway near the stairs and made his great escape. Now he was home free and back on the beautiful streets. God he'd never been so glad to see dirty concrete.

On his way back, he stopped short and realized Matt's camera was missing. He'd left it on the roof. Switching his direction, he decided to head back to get it. Hopefully that would tide over the angry Matt he would meet at home demanding where he'd been for the past…how long had it been? Shaking off the unnerving sensation of lost time, he moved into the throngs of city goers.

It took a few minuets to gain his bearings on the busy streets, but he was able to keep a low profile an snag a hat and abandoned jacket to help him blend with the crowd. After about twenty minuets, he was able to make it back to the warehouse district and scope out the spot he'd been snatched up by Hale's goons. When he reached the roof, a wave or relief washed over him when he saw the black bag poking out from where it had fallen, the camera beside it. Thank god it hadn't rained. Matt would have killed him on the spot.

Taking a few steps forward, he made to pick up the bag, but immediately felt the presence of someone else on the roof. Spinning on his feet, his heart lurched, and a pair of shocked eyes locked with his. They stood there for a moment before the tension was cut.

“It's been three days, Stiles.” Matt's voice was somber, and his gaze wouldn't quite meet his own.

“And yet,” Stiles countered with a smile, “Here I am. One lean, mean, sarcasm-spouting machine. Wait, how did you know to come here?”

Matt stared down at the camera bag, his hands deep in his pockets.

“I thought you were-,"

"But I'm not," Stiles quickly interjected, putting a hand out, "I'm here. And it's over."

"I know," Matt whispered, his hands resting in jacket pocket, "And I'm sorry Stiles." Confusion crossed his face, and Stiles glanced at his friend with a lost expression.

"What would you have to be sor-" Stiles sentence caught in his throat as the barrel of a gun was pointed at him.

“Matt, man, what the hell?!” Stiles exclaimed, jolting back as the gun lined up with his chest. Matt silently stared back at him, face blank and eyes dead. The expression unsettled Stiles. It was the same as the expression he'd had in the living room. This wasn't his Matt.

“You're suppose to be dead, Stiles.” The gun trembled slightly in his grip, and Stiles panic started to build.

“Matt. What's going on,” Stiles voice wavered, and his tone was low. An indistinguishable mix of fear and concern swirled in his eyes.

“I can't-” Matt roared, tears brimming in his eyes, “They won't let me keep you alive. You know too much.” The gun trembled in his fingers, his arm fighting with his brain. Matt's head tilted to the side with an apology, and his teeth clenched. Know too much? What was he even talking about?

“I don't understand.”

“ _No_ _you don't, Stiles!_ It would have been okay. Everything would have been fine if you hadn't stuck your nose in their business. You went looking for them when you said you would let it go. You thought you could save the day and get rid of all the bad guys. Send the bad guys off to prison and ride off into the sunset as the hero,” Stiles couldn't respond for a moment as he sifted through the confusion to figure out exactly what the hell Matt was talking about. Nothing made sense. Unless it had to do with what he'd found in Matt's boxes awhile back. That was the only thing that had really upset in him since they were kids.

"What, is this about that Kanima I found a few weeks ago? Is that what this is about?"

"It's so much more then that Stiles. You didn't just stop there. You started asking questions. You'd been dancing around them for months, then you started to put the pieces together. And now they know you're onto them. And I have to kill you, or they'll kill me. And that's what would have happened, but-" Matt's voice was broken and lost by the end, there was something hollow and dark in his tone that sent a chill up Stiles' spine. Just like in their living room, Matt was different. He was violent, and angry. Not his Matt.

"Matt, you don't have to do this," Stiles tried, his hands still up in surrender as he tried to calm his friend down. Tremors of fear ran through his body as his options ran thin, but this couldn't be it. They could figure something out. They always did.

Tears slipped down Matt's cheeks as he moved the barrel to line up with Stile's heart. Words refused to find Stiles lips as he shook his head with begging eyes. What the hell had happened to his life?

“I'm sorry.”

A ringing shot echoed through the silence.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

 

 

Stiles stood frozen in shock as Matt's body crumpled to the floor, a stream of blood leaking from the bullet hole in his head. The gun he'd been holding skidded to the side, and his eyes lay open and dead staring straight at Stiles as if they were looking straight into his soul. The most unsettling thing about it wasn't the fact that he was dead, but the fact that the expression was the same as it had been seconds ago. Dead, and void of everything that was Matt. 

“He set you up with the cartel to have you killed.” Derek's voice sounded behind him, but his eyes remained glued to the paling body of his best friend, “ You had been sniffing around his drug trafficking operation of Kanima for quite awhile. You started asking questions, and the wrong people heard about it. He set you up to be killed so his bosses wouldn't cut him off or get rid of him.”

“No,” Stiles croaked, hands shaking, “That...That can't be. He's my brother. He wouldn't” 

Stiles chest compressed. Matt wouldn't. Not even in his worst nightmares would this have happened. They'd been through everything. Thick and thin. Nothing could have made Matt lose himself. Memories of their childhood flashed through his head. 

 

\--------------------------

 

_'It was August, his first day of school. Summer was still in swing, and the sunlight streamed through the colorfully decorated windows along the wall. Shrinking into his mother's skirt, he tried to disappear._

_“Genim, honey, it's kindergarden! The first day of school!” Her voice was warm like honey and sweet as sugar, a gentle smile touching her eyes as she leaned down to meet her son at eye level. “You even put on your favorite Batman shirt to show how brave and strong you were.” A sheepish smile ran across his mouth as he pawed at the shirt fondly._

_“Yeah. I'm Batman! He's not scared of anything!”_  

 _“That's my little Genim.” She placed a kiss on his forehead, chuckling as he scrunched his face._  

_“Mom,” he whined, “Heroes don't need kisses!” She only chuckled in reply, taking his hand and leading him towards the classroom. When he got inside, a few other kids had already arrived and found their seats. They walked around the desks to find his name tag and she helped him get his pencils and Batman notebook out._

_“Alright sweetheart, It's time for me to go.” She stood up and started walking away. Sudden panic welled up inside him and he jumped up and ran towards her._

_“Wait!” She turned around to find him clutching her leg._

_“I thought you said heroes didn't need kisses.” A fond smile sat on her lips as she spoke._

_“I lied... Dad gets kisses before he goes out, so it's okay,” he justified, looking up with determination at his mother. “I love you.”_

_“I love you to sweetheart.” Giving him one last kiss, she floated out of the room. Behind her, another boy came in and Stiles was instantly drawn to his shirt. Robin. Without a single hesitation, he ran up to the boy._

_“I'm Genim Stilinski!” He beamed, his chest puffed out proudly. The little curly haired kid stared at him for a moment, then started giggling. He frowned in return. “What's so funny?”_

_“Your name is funny,” he giggled. Folding his arms across his chest, Genim set his lip into a pout and almost glared at the kid as he tried to say his name. “Gen...Gen...m...Stili- Stilee” Ready to stomp back to his seat, he made turn around, but was stopped. “What if I call you Stiles?” His face instantly lit up and he held out his hand._

_“Sure!” He had always thought his name was a bit funny. This one much better. Stiles._

_“I'm Matt.”_

 

* 

 

_“Come on mom!” Stiles called eagerly as he raced Matt down the sidewalk, bucket clanking and bumping against his frisk motions. John and Lisa let out synchronized laughs as Stiles and Matt bound up the beach like crazed ducks with a flailing waddle._

_By the end of that day, a grand sand castle adorned the beach, flags made of seaweed and sticks strewn about each tower. Well...grand in the sense it resembled a mountain range with a few bucket molds popping out of it, but a castle was a castle, and Stile's couldn't be more proud. Matt and he shared their perfected secret handshake that had taken them a week to come up with, and two more to memorize._

_When they got to the beach house that night, they decided to have a slumber party in the living room, popcorn and pajamas mandatory. Lisa set the freshly heated popcorn down on the table and handed the boys two juice boxes._

_"Alright, I have a surprise for you boys!" she sang, hands behind her back. Matt and Stiles perked up and scooted to her feet with anxious breathing. When she pulled her hands around, two movies sat in each hand. For Matt, there was 'Hercules', and for Stiles, there was 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame'. Both boys snatched up the VHS in front of them and ogled over them with grins stretching from ear to ear._  

_They spent about five minuets going back and forth on what was on their covers and who's was cooler. It quickly became a competition to see which one they would watch, and John quickly stepped in to avoid the argument that was stewing between the two._

_"Alright, I'm thinking of a number. And whoever is closest to my number gets to pick the movie, okay?"_

_"But you have to tell mom your number too so I know you're not picking favorites!" Stiles insisted, pointing an accusatory finger at his father. Ultimately, Matt one and they ended up watching Hercules, and within the first ten minuets fell in love._

_They ran around pretending to be greek gods for at least a month after that, Stiles taking to Hermes because he could fly, and Matt ran around with a sheet on calling himself Hercules._

_The name quickly became Matt's nickname via Stiles._

 

_*_

 

_Clacking and shouting sounded from the backyard as two de-branched sticks collided mercilessly with each other._

_“I'm Hercules!” Stiles yordled proudly to his opponent. Another clack sounded._

_“No! I'm Hercules!” Matt ground his teeth and lurched at Stiles._

_“Nah-uuuh!” Stiles dodged another blow from the oncoming branch, sticking to the defensive._  

_“Fine,” Matt retorted with a dark smirk, “Then I'm Batman!” Stiles stick fell to the ground, his mouth hung open in shock. Matt smirked back in return._

_“No, you can't be Batman! I'm Batman! That's not fair!”_  

_“Well, you said you were Hercules, so you can't be Batman.” Unable to come up with a good enough comeback, Stiles growled, picking up  his stick, he threw it at Matt with as much force as he could muster. A resounding smack sounded as the branch collided with Matt's cheek, followed by whimpering from Matt as he fell to the ground. Shock ran through Stiles as he realized what he'd just done. Quickly, he rushed to Matt's side and tried to comfort him._

_“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!” he blubbered out, voice high pitched and frantic. Matt clutched his cheek, tears brimming on the rim of his eyes. When he took his hand away, a thin line of red ran across his palm. His fist clenched, and he shoved Stiles away._

_“Go away! I hate you!” Matt stood up and stormed off towards the woods. Stiles quickly picked himself up and ran after the retreating boy._

_“I'm sorry Matt! I didn't mean to! You can be Hercules!” Stiles pleaded, his hands reaching out to grab hold of Matt's shoulder. Spinning on his heel, Matt's voice was sharp and laced with anger._  

 _“You're not my friend anymore._ **I hate you Stiles** _!” He didn't know what to do. His mouth hung agape as Matt glared at him, hand on his cheek again. Something broke in his heart, and he gritted his teeth._

 _“NO!” Stiles shouted as loud as he could, shaking the trees and causing a few crows to fly from their perch. Leaves crunched under his feet as he charged back into the house and to his room._  

_Matt stared after the retreating boy for a moment, confused, but still angry. He waited a moment after Stiles had disappeared into the house, then let out a huff and started stopping off towards his house. He hadn't gotten fifteen steps before he heard the sound of quick footsteps coming towards him. When he turned around, Stiles stood there, arm outstretched and tears pooling in his determined little brown eyes._

_Glancing at the piece of fabric in Stiles' hand, Matt's eyes went wide._

_“You can be Batman,” Stiles almost whispered, voice cracking as he spoke, “You can be Batman too! Just don't not be my best friend.” Stiles stared at the ground as he spoke, trying to keep the tears from spilling out onto the ground._

_Then suddenly he was tackled and pulled into a hug._

_“It's okay, I'm not that mad.” Stiles returned the hug fiercely._

_“I'm sorry,” he mumbled out again. When they pulled back, a smile spread across Matts face._

_“Let's go Batman,” he smirked, running back towards the house. A giant grin stretched across Stile's face and he gladly followed, vowing never to lay a hand on his friend again._

_When it was time for Matt to leave, he told his mother he had tripped, sharing a small smile when his eyes met Stiles. Their parents suspected nothing, sighing as they mumbled something about six year olds and 'boys being boys' or something like that._

 

_*_

 

_That summer, John took both of the boys down to the town square and walked around with them. They went into the Beacon Hills Arcade and did their best to play absolutely every game in the entire building. After about three hours, John had to just about drag both boys from the racing game they had been going at for the past forty five minuets, promising them ice cream and a special surprise._

_Stiles, of coarse, got triple chocolate with sprinkles, much to his father's horror, and Matt got blueberry swirl with little sprinkles shaped as eyes so his food would look back at him._

_As they ate, John walked them down to the train tracks._

_“Why are we here?” Stiles asked through a mouthful of ice cream, coming out more as, “Wh're weh hure?”_

_John smirked at his son and held out a penny in each of his hands._

_“Have you ever seen what a penny looks like when a train rolls over it?” Curiosity and excitement sparkled in their eyes as they saw where he was going with this._

_“Can we really!?!” Stiles and Matt screeched in excitedly, almost dropping both of their ice cream cones; not that they cared much at this point. John nodded with a wide grin, nodding towards the pennies in his hands. They both took a penny and watched as Stiles father showed them how to lay it. Looking down at his watch, the Sheriff grinned. He walked the boys to a safe distance and waited._

_“Do you hear it?” John whispered excitedly, putting his hand to his ear. Stiles and Matt excitedly followed in suit, copying the Sheriff and cupping their hands around their ears. In the distance, a whistle sounded. Both boys jumped up and down excitedly as they confirmed they heard it. A flashing red light came down on a white and red stripped pole as the train sped past them. The boys stared, mesmerized._

_When the train passed, and the bar lifted, John lead the boys back to where they had placed their pennies._

_“Where'd they go dad?” Stiles called out with confusion, his little eyes scanning the ground with disappointment._

_“I don't see mine either Mr. Stilinski,” Matt called worriedly from his spot. John smiled and reassured the boys._

_“That's the fun part. You have to look for it now!” It quickly became a game._

_“Found it!” Matt called, waving his penny in the air like a golden ticket from 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory'. That only boosted Stiles to find his before his father. Quickly he found it, and to his delight, another lay right next to his._

_“I found two!” Matt rushed over, mouth agape._

_“That's not fair!” John walked over, ready to stop the argument about to take place, but Stiles stunned him still._

_“That's okay, you can have this one.” He handed on of the pennies to Matt with a smile, not even flinching at the thought of having one less then his friend. John smiled and placed his hand on his sons head. He crouched down next to Stiles and held out the penny he had found._

_“Since you were such a good friend, you can have mine.” Stiles looked up at his father with shock and jumped around his fathers neck._

_“Really?! Thank you dad!” Both boys stared at the two pennies in their hands with inexplicable joy._

_“You boys want to hear something cool? An old greek story, but you can't tell your mothers I told you. Promise?” Matt and Stiles glanced at each other and quickly nodded their heads._

_“It was once believed that when you passed on, you were taken to the next world by a boats man, and had to pay a fee of two coins. So, when someone passed on, two coins were placed on their eye lids to pay the boatsman.” When John finished, both boys were staring down at their coins in silence, and he wondered if it hadn't been the greatest idea to tell first graders that story._

_They glanced at each other, and then the Sheriff._

_“Coooool,” they both sang, clutching their pennies even harder now._

_When they got home, John took the pennies and drilled holes in them and strung them onto a chain to make a necklace so they wouldn't lose them._

_They never took them off._

 

_*_

 

 _Second grade had rolled around and it was almost spring break._  

_“Dad says she's sick.” His voice wavered as he spoke, eyes not quite meeting Matt's, “He doesn't know if she'll get better.” Stiles could feel the water forming in his eyes, and the burning in his throat, but refused to let himself cry. Boys don't cry, that's what all of the other boys said when they teased. Girls cried, and Stiles wasn't a girl. Gritting his teeth, he scrubbed at his face, willing the wetness away._

_He jolted slightly as something brushed against his hand, and he looked down to see Matt's in his. When he glanced up, Matt was simply smiling, and Stiles gave a small one in return with a silent thank you in his eyes._

 

_*_

 

_She passed the following spring. Before they closed the casket, Stiles took one last look at his mother and  placed two pennies he had been saving in her hands. She looked like a sleeping angel._

_Matt held his hand as they lowered her into the ground, tears leaking down both of their cheeks. She was surrounded by daisies and sweet peas, her favorite flowers. That night, they fell asleep clutching each other in the Sheriff's bed._

_They never spoke of it._

 

_*_

 

 _It was fourth grade when Matt almost drowned._  

_They were at the pool, swimming around the shallow end like they always did. The older boys were in the deep end, diving off the diving board and playing a game of sharks and minnows. Matt usually kept close to the wall, but still got in splashing fights with Stiles as they swam around for hours and hours._

_Mrs. Daehler was watching the boys, and was engrossed in a conversation with another mother when two of the older boys approached Matt and Stiles._

_“Wanna play? We need more players.”_

_Stiles glanced over at Matt's mom, but since she wasn't looking, he looked back at the older boys._

_“What? Are you scared?” one of the boys taunted._

_“I don't think we-” Stile's had started to tell them, but Matt quickly stepped in._

_“We'll play.”_

_“Matt!” Stiles whispered harshly, giving his friend a worried look._

_“It's okay Stiles, I'm Hercules, and you're Batman. We can do anything!"_  

_They lined up on the side of the deep end, and both looked at each other with excitement._

_“SHARKS AND MINNOS ONE, TWO, THREE. ALL THE MINNOS IN THE SEA!”_

_Everyone dove into the pool and it was a mad rush to the other side. Stiles swam for everything he was worth to make it to the other side, careful of the bigger boys around him. His hand touched the cement and he looked up and grinned, searching for Matt. He wasn't there. Had he been caught? When he looked out towards the sharks, he didn't see him there either._

_Panic set in his chest._

_“Matt?” he called, and a few other boys glanced at him. “Matt!” he called again. Then he dipped his head underwater and saw his friend flailing under the surface. His chest compressed and he shot his head out of the water to get help, but before he could call out, the life guard blew his whistle and dove in after him, pulling him onto the edge._

_Stiles darted out of the pool, ignoring the pool rules, and sprinted to the other side where Matt lay on the ground coughing up water._

_“Matt!” he yelled, falling to his side, knees scraping against the rough surface. Stiles could care less._

_“Matthew!” his mother yelled, storming towards him. She quickly thanked the life guard and told them both to grab their things. She didn't even ask if he was alright._

_As they walked to the car, Stiles clutched his friends hand, refusing to let go. The whole ride home, Stiles held Matt's hand tightly, his breathing hitching quietly. Mrs. Deahler was chiding Matt the whole ride back, but Matt ignored her and kept whispering assurances to Stiles to keep down his oncoming panic attack._

_“It's okay. I'm okay, Stiles,” he whispered. He refused to leave Matt's side, and insisted to his father that he stay the night._

_They didn't visit the pool much after that day._

 

_*_

 

_There were sleepovers every week, most at Stiles house, and a few at Matt's. As the months went on, Matt spent more and more time at the Stilinski residence. His mother and father were fighting more often, and sometimes his mother would leave for days on end while his father went on a drinking binge until she got back._

_The Sheriff would gladly have him over._

 

_*_

 

_Stiles held Matt's hand again when his mother left. He watched as she slammed the door, two suitcases in hand. She didn't say goodbye._

_Matt clutched Stiles hand in return, his face unmoving as clear droplets fell onto his shirt._

_They never spoke about that time either._

 

_*_

 

_High school rolled around, and their sleepovers had turned into all nighters filled with pizza and video gaming until dawn. They had both grown into their bodies quite well, but Matt had filled out better in Stile's opinion. At least he had muscles and the girls liked him. Stiles, however, had grown up to be quite the pasty bean pole. He was lanky and awkward, but sarcastic and as much a trouble maker as ever._

_Matt convinced him to try out for lacrosse with him, and somehow they both managed to make it onto the team.Of coarse, Matt was first string, and Stiles kept the bench warm for the injured players. The coach insisted on calling him Bilinski, and Stiles had long since given up on correcting him._

_Another thing had changed for Stiles. He had always been curious, but by his freshman year of high school, he was one hundred percent positive he was gay._

_There was also a kid at school named Jackson that made it his mission to make Stiles' life a living hell. Matt had befriended him, and Jackson acted civil when he was there, but when Matt wasn't looking, Jackson would threaten and occasionally throw a  punch or two at Stiles._

_He never told._

 

_*_

 

_Nothing changed when Stiles came out to Matt. They still had sleepovers, played copious amounts of video games, and Matt even tried to set him up with a few guys._

 

_*_

 

_Soon enough, it was junior prom. Stiles had been in lacrosse for three years now, and his body had most definitely gained a little bit of muscle. He was Still lean and thin, but he at least got to play in a few games. He had even lost his virginity at a party earlier that year, and was one of the top students in the school. Matt had managed to score them both dates for the prom, and Jackson paid for the limo and dinner. Though Jackson was much less of a douche to Stiles and now their interactions consisted of Jackson insulting Stiles and Stiles sassing him back, he was still a douche._

_“God, I can't believe you boys are already going to prom,” the Sheriff sighed, his hand rubbing the back of his neck, doing his best to hide the moisture in his eyes. Stiles chuckled as his father pulled them both into a hug._

_“I love you boys.”_

_Stiles smiled, choking down the emotion in his chest at the sound of his father's voice wavering._

_“Love you too dad. Besides, it's just prom. It's not like we're never coming back.”_  

_“Don't worry Sheriff, I'll keep him in line.”_

_The Sheriff scoffed at that, and let out a booming laugh._

_“Right. You boys were never good at lying. Just be safe. Do we need to have the sex talk again?”_

_Both boys cringed as they groaned. Not a pleasant memory. His dad didn't even bat an eye at having the gay sex talk with Stiles, much to Matt's horror. He was in the room after all, and then the Sheriff had given Matt the sex talk, much to Stiles' amusement._

_Stiles and his date had matching vests and boutonnieres, Matt's date had insisted on wearing a hot pink dress, and Matt, in turn, had to wear a hot pink tie, vest, and boutonniere. Stiles had laughed for a good thirty minuets when he had first walked out. Although it was an improvement to the original plan for him to wear a completely pink tux, Stiles still wished he'd been forced to wear the thing. God it would have been hilarious._

_They got smashed at the after party, Matt and his date had ended up sucking face on the couch for the rest of the night, and Stiles stayed up until he passed out playing truth of dare._

_When he woke up the next morning, he was wearing some other girls dress, sporting a horrid makeup job, and had seven hickies on his neck. Oh, and he had on a thong._

_He remembered nothing._

 

_*_

 

_By Matt's senior year, his father was in a drunken stupor and was deemed unfit to care for him. The Sheriff took him in without a second thought, giving him the guest room next to Stiles'._

 

_*_

 

_And then they were graduating. Stiles was valedictorian with a full ride to NYU, Matt was headed to the same place, intent on rooming with Stiles. Jackson was off to where ever he pleased since he was flilfthy, dripping rich, and not ashamed to let anyone know. As if the porsche he drove wasn't enough of an indicator._

_The Sheriff cried, and held his son, planting a kiss on his forehead the day of his graduation._

_“Your mother would be so proud of you,” he cracked, staring his son straight in the eyes, his smile crinkling his eyes._

_“Thank's dad,” Stiles whispered out, clutching his father tightly. The Sheriff pulled Matt into a hug next._

_“You too son. She thought of you as one of her own.” Matt smiled back at John like a son would a father, and choked out a thank you. It went unsaid that it was for more then just the complement._

_There was a graduation party at Jackson's house that rated at the top of one of the best parties Stiles had ever been too. No expense was spared and the entire school came. The finest food filled up the dining room, the living room had been converted into something that looked like a night club, and the DJ was the best money could by._

_The Sheriff had taken all of their keys earlier that day, and turned a blind eye that night, but warned Stiles that he would send in his force if there was a single complaint. Luckily for Jackson, his father had already negotiated with the neighbors to let it slide for a night._

_Stile's life was good._

 

_*_

 

_Then everything changed._

_It was a regular boring Tuesday, summer vacation in full swing. He was out with Matt shopping for dorm supplies. They had been talking about what kind of TV they wanted in their dorm, arguing over which video games to bring along when his ringtone sounded from his pocket. When he answered, the world came to a screeching halt._

_His father had been shot._

_He had been on patrol and was doing a regular speeding stop, when the car sped up and it resulted in a car chase down the highway. The Sheriff had called for backup, but by the time they reached him, he was on the ground and the other car was gone. He didn't make it._

_When Stiles hung up, his feet slipped out from under him, and his airways closed up. Matt was shouting at him, calling his name, and calling for help. Everything was numb and seemed to be ringing._

_They managed to make it to the car, and Matt sped off to the police station._

_When they arrived, the officers stared at they boys for a moment, then pulled them into a hug apologizing for their loss._  

_They handed him everything in his father's locker. A family photo of Stiles, his mother, and him, a photo of both Stiles and Matt at graduation, store coupons, a grocery list of what they needed at the store that week, and the necklace Matt and Stiles had given him for Christmas, two pennies crushed by a train. They had wanted each of them to have matching necklaces. Stiles held out the necklace and in a screeched whisper, insisted that it be buried with is father._

_When the funeral came, he was given a flag, and his father was buried beside his mother._

_Matt slept next to him again, each of them holding each other as they cried._

_They never spoke of it._

 

_*_

 

_The men responsible were never found._

_Stiles still went to college, not wanting to disappoint his father or dishonor him by throwing his life away and passing up his free ride._

_They would have graduated, and in three years no less, but one night Stiles was out with Matt when a man was attacked in the streets and Matt snapped pictures. Stiles wrote a story and the shipped it off to the papers anonymously._

_The man was apprehended and sentenced to 2 years in prison for assault charges._

_And the boys were in business._

_It started out with small stories, but once they assisted in finding a lead for a massive cocaine operation, they were on the map. Instantly, they were official reporters for 'The Leak', an infamous internet website with the biggest dirt in the business. All of the stories were given from anonymous reporters across the country._

_Stiles and Matt were given the underground name Peter Parker, much to Stiles joy, for their impossible camera shots and story content. Too bad no one knew it was a team effort.'_

 

 

\----------------------------------------

 

 

It was like an instant replay of their lives. The same phenomenon he'd heard about in movies when people died. But this was some sick version where instead of the dead man seeing it, the one left living gets to see the flashback. Or maybe Stiles had died, and this was his hell. No parents, no family, no Matt. 

Without realizing, Stiles' feet carried him towards the fallen body, legs giving out when he reached his side. 

"You're wrong," he breathed with a crackled voice, pleading more to himself. How did it all come to this? 

“I'm sorry, Hercules,” Stiles strangled out, his voice thin and almost inaudible. His fingers moved to his forehead, where he pushed the open eye lids down. Leaning forward, he placed his forehead against Matt's, not even trying to hold back tears. Not this time. 

He pulled off the necklace his father had made for him all those years ago, and switched it with the one he knew Matt always wore. His fist circled around the copper, his forehead still resting on Matt's. 

He stayed that way until a someone was pulling him off of the body. 

“You need to leave. I'll deal with the body.” Derek's voice was cold and unfazed by the body.  

“I wan't him buried,” Stiles ground out, holding his head up and locking eyes with Derek, determination beaming in them. That, however, did cause Derek's eye brows to shift to a barley noticeable state of confusion.

“He tried to have you killed, Stiles.” 

"It doesn't matter!" Stiles shouted, "If it had been your uncle, wouldn't you want him buried? Even though he tried to kill you, he's still family." Derek only glared back at him without reply. 

Rage boiled in Stiles blood, seeping into his bones and burning his lungs. Something snapped in his thoughts as his glare bore into the man's that had just killed his best friend. Why was he trying to reason with a murderer? Derek's eyes were resolved, and what Derek wanted, Derek got.

In a quick dash, he grabbed up the gun that had skid to the side when Matt was shot.  Gripping it firmly, he aimed it towards Derek's chest. Incompetent as he may have seemed, his father had taught him his way around a gun.

“You killed him,” his voice was dark and unforgiving. The suited man before him simply stared back, not even giving Stiles the courtesy of raising his gun to him. As though he wasn't a threat in Derek's eyes. This only egged Stiles on further. “You shot my brother, you fuck.”

Carefully calculating his moves, Derek stepped forward towards Stiles. 

“He was shooting to kill, I just killed him first.”

“He wouldn't have done it! Not Matt!” Stiles howled, his hand deadly steady as Derek approached him like a wolf stalking its prey. And in that short second, Derek had the audacity to smirk, looking down on Stiles as if he were a child. 

“Matt Daeler died the day he sold his soul to the devil. He took the position he had earned with the cops and other reporters and used it to team up with the cartel and keep them in business for years. You were a pawn in his game, and he played you until your use ran out. When he died, the only thing on his mind was the Kanima. 

Ironically enough, though, it was your fist big story that started it all. It boosted you into the inner circle of reporters, but put you on the map for the gang. Matt had only been a recreational user at that point, but they sought him out and bargained with him to keep the cops off their tail in exchange for a supply of Kanima every two weeks. Then you caught them a week ago at the docks and stirred up the law enforcement to come sniffing around. You must have heard something else, and Matt caught onto it. The boss demeaned your head, and Matt complied.”

“That's a lie! Why would I trust a son-of-a bitch who-” Derek pointed towards the wall.

“You see that, Stiles? That's a bullet hole from the same gun you have in your hands now. He wasn't _going_ to shoot at you, he _did_. Besides, he would have been killed within the week.  I bought out his little gang and had them all dealt with. I even saved your life.” 

“And you took _his_!” There was dead silence for a moment, both men staring each other down, “You owe me this.” 

“ _Owe you_? You stepped into this game, and you had better be prepared to play it, whatever the cost.” By this point, Derek's chest was inches from the barrel of the gun, his breathing steady and his eyes dark. Slowly, he reached up and pulled the gun from Stiles trembling hands and placed it in his pocket. “I need to deal with the body. You need to go home.”

“ _No!_ ” Stiles argued, his voice wavering slightly, “He has to be taken back to Beacon Hills.”

“Even though he sold you out to a group of men who would have tortured you until you bled out or died of starvation? Even though he tried to murder you?” Derek's voice was restrained and composed, but something flickered in the depths of his expression. 

“I don't care!” Stiles cried out, his voice echoing through the abandoned warehouses, “He was my family, dirty reporter or not. Nothing will change that fact. He deserves to be buried with the rest of his family in Beacon Hills.” His voice was unstable by the end, sounding very much like a broken child, “He needs to be with our family.” 

The last of his family. Matt would be buried in the last plot. The one next to his father. And his mother. His plot.

Pain swelled up in his chest, and the air seemed to stuffy, despite the fact that he was outside. 

"He needs to be home." His voice was small at this point, his hands trembling. Everything was sinking in and hitting him full force. Derek's heat wafted from his suit, making Stiles stomach roll. There was nothing for him to prop himself against, unless he wanted to lean on Derek. The idea shrunk his windpipe further. When his gaze found his hands, the sickly red burned its way into his memory. Matt's blood. Wheezing breaths made there way from his lips and his body joined his hands, quaking violently. 

Air. 

Where was the air?

His hands found their way to his chest as he tried to rip his lungs open. He needed breathe. A hollow ringing sound through his ears, accompanying his racing heart. He didn't feel when his fingers tore through the fabric of his shirt, nor did he feel when his nails brought up his own flesh and blood. There were only gasping breaths and an erratic heartbeat. 

There was another noise, but Stiles couldn't make out what it was. There may have been hands restraining his, or those were his own. What was the weight? It didn't matter. He was drowning again, but this time there was no one there to ground him. Nothing to bring him back.

His air was coming in short, thin gasps, like no matter how much he sucked in, his lungs wouldn't fill. It was like breathing through a coffee straw. Tears had already blurred his vision, and he didn't notice he'd fallen to the ground until he saw a shape looming over him and the sky stretched out behind the figure. 

Words were spilling out of his mouth, but he wasn't sure what they were. The only things he could comprehend were the coins biting into his clutched hand, the racing pulse in his ears, and the body lying next to his. 

Then he was covered in a dark warmth.

 


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

 

 

It had been four months since Matt's funeral. Stiles had sold the old apartment and found another on the other side of town. All of Matt's debts had 'miraculously' been taken care of, but Stiles knew exactly what had happened. He still had the jacket.

Matt had been lying on the roof and there was blood. So much blood. Stiles couldn't find air or purchase for his slowly slipping composure. Then suddenly, Derek was there.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shock jolted through his body as he was lifted from the ground and pulled into the black suit covered chest of the powerful man in front of him. The fabric muffled the gasping and soaked up the water running down his cheeks. Warm hands curled around his torso and cradled his head with an unnerving amount of care. On his knees, Derek held Stiles close.

"I'm sorry."

The sound was so faint, Stiles almost didn't catch it. A violent swell of emotion rocked is core and more tears streamed down his cheeks. Somehow in some twisted, fucked up way, a sense of gratitude shot through him, causing him to grasp the black suit jacket in front of him as a silent thank you. He held on for dear life as sobs racked his body.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The funeral was a week later in Beacon Hills. There had been a plane ticket in his mailbox and a letter explaining that all the funeral arrangements had been settled and were paid for in full. _'Anonymous donor'_ was to thank, or at least that's what the letter said. Stiles knew fully well who made the arrangements. To everyone else, he had been hit by a car while on the job. Drunk driver, or at least that's what the finial report said. Again, it must have been his _anonymous_ friend.

Flowers and letters of condolences had been sent to his apartment, luckily they didn't have a landline for people to clog up with messages. Little miracles. Chris Argent even sent him a letter and gave him two weeks off with pay. Another 'anonymous donor' had paid for three months rent. Stiles did his best to shut it out and avoided the apartment as long as possible.

The ceremony was small, consisting of only Stiles and a few close friends; Scott, Melissa, and Danny. Most of the sheriff's department that weren't on duty showed up. A small smile caught the corners of Stiles's mouth when coach Finnstock and a few of the old lacrosse team made there way to the gravesite. Stiles had no doubt it was the coaches doing. The most shocking moment was when Jackson Whitemore stepped out of his Porsche, Stiles was almost touched. Almost.

Stiles stayed until dark just standing in front of the graves. There were flowers on each. His mother's, his father's, and his best friend's. Scott and Danny waited there with him, each placing a hand on his shoulders. Scott pulled on his shoulder when his body started shaking from the cold.

"Come on Stiles. How about we go get a drink? For Matt." Stiles numbly nodded and let his friends lead him off.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Four months later and his life was getting somewhat back on track. He'd sold the old apartment, unable to deal with living in a place full of that many memories. His new neighborhood was a bit better, but the apartment was much smaller. It was more of a studio apartment layout, but he had an extra bedroom that he converted into a workspace for his photography and editorials. His bed was more or less crammed into a corner and consisted of a mess of sheets with a few pillows sprinkled about.

It wasn't much to look at, but it was his.

Scott had started to come over more often and Danny would pop in every now and again when he wasn't busy with his tech job. The guy was a genius hacker, and in Stiles opinion, as waisting his talent cleaning up college students computers of viruses from porn and tracking lost iPhones. Seriously, Stiles had hacked into the police database and found that he'd been arrested at 13 for hacking into multiple government websites.

Scott, well, Scott was a veterinary assistant. He loved his job, and on occasion when Stiles would go over to his house, he would find puppies or kittens that Scott was watching over night. It was quick to see that Scott was as much of a puppy as the one's he took care of. He would lollop about with a dopey grin on his face whenever he talked about work, a cute girl, or even a hamburger he enjoyed. That and Scott was just as into video games as he was and Stiles had finally met his match.

His job was more laid back and he was mostly booked for events and weddings.

Today, in fact, he was suppose to be photographing an engagement party. His fingers fumbled with his black tie, doing his best to at least make it look decent. At least it wasn't a bow tie, he could never get them to sit straight. Pulling on his jacket he looked over himself. Not too bad. It was a simple black suit, but he'd gotten it tailored to fit. Everyone needed at least one good suit, and with all of the events he was going to, jeans just weren't going to cut it.

When he arrived, he unpacked and started snapping shots of the decorations and table settings. Couples always enjoyed those. There were two other photographers there, most likely to help cover the amount of people that were suppose to arrive and to give the couple multiple options.

The event passed without a hitch and by the end of it, he'd said goodbye to the couple and made his way back home to look over the photos.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

He was casually chewing on a pen when he started to notice someone in the back of a a series of his photographs. The figure wasn't prominent, but he didn't move and was looking directly at the camera in each shot.

There he was, a dark suited figure just in the far left corner of his screen. Squinting, he zoomed in on the shot and yanked the pen from his mouth. No fucking way. Derek Hale. But that couldn't be right, he hadn't even seen him there and he'd taken pictures of almost everyone in attendance.

Clicking forward a few shots, he froze on one where Derek was staring directly at the camera and tilting his glass up with a god damned smirk. Some odd mix of irritation and something he couldn't put his finger on washed over him.

Pushing the thought aside, he shut off his computer and went sleep. The photos weren't going to be sent for a week anyways. He had time.

That night he dreamed of red eyes and blood.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

 

Over the period of next three weeks, he'd been booked for several events, and _somehow_ Derek Hale managed to be at a majority of them.

 

By the fourth event Stiles was more then irritated. Each and every time Stiles would be editing and sorting through the pictures, he would find Derek somewhere in the background raising his glass to him. What? Was this his new favorite pass time?

"I thought he might have better things to do like, I don't know,  _run a company_!" he ground out angrily under his breath, quickly clicking forward to a photo without Derek.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

 

At this point, Stiles wasn't even surprised to see him there. Nor was he surprised when thirty minuets into the party, said "him" was standing next to him.

"Stalking me, really? You should pick up another hobby. I recommend golf or fucking off." Stiles blanched in a bored tone, lifting his camera to take more photos. He waisted at least ten shots on pictures of bushes and lost napkins in an attempt to seem busy.

"You give yourself too much credit, and besides, aren't you the one stalking me? It's almost like you're looking for the events you know I'll be attending."

"Oh gosh, you've found me out. What better way to spend my time?" He could physically feel the smirk without even looking up.

"I brought you a drink to help you loosen up. You seem tense." Suspicion narrowed his gaze and he glared first down at the glass then up to the man holding it. It had to be tainted with some drug. There was no other explanation. Derek didn't just do nice things for people. There was always an ulterior motive.

"And why would you bring me a drink?"

"You seemed like you could use one. Contrary to your belief, I can be quite the gentleman." The laugh that burst from Stiles was borderline inhuman.

"You're kidding me right? You. A gentleman?" Derek didn't grace him with a response, but simply raised one of his eyebrows and stared. A flush started to creep up Stile's face and he quickly averted his gaze. However, he did catch the very apparent smirk from the man next to him. Bastard.

"I'll see you around then," Derek waved as he moved back into the crowd.

"Like fun you will, short stack," Stiles grumbled vehemently. Picking up the drink, he took a quick sip and had to physically force himself not to spit it out all over the grass. The taste was burned into his memory. Whisky. A horrified flush rose to his cheeks and he viciously scoped out the crowd, finding Derek not to far off, shoulders shaking up and down. The bastard was…he was fucking _laughing!_

He chucked the drink into the bushes and glued himself to his viewfinder, ignoring the heat on his cheeks.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Three nights later, he had a date. A hot date. And he was going to go out, have some drinks, and forget about Derek Hale. It was going to be perfect.

.  
.  
.

"Shit, this has never happened before…"

"Hey, it happens to the best of us sometimes. It's all good." Stiles couldn't even look at the guy. He felt horrible, but at least he'd gotten him off with a blow job, so it wasn't a total loss for his date. There was an awkward pause before the rustling of fabric sounded as his date pulled on his cloths.

"Sorry," Stiles mumbled out, completely out of his depth in how to handle a situation like this.

"Well…I'm gonna go. Call me if you want to try this again when you're not…yeah." Stiles just nodded and waved.

At the sound of the front door clicking shut, Stiles ran into the bathroom and splashed water against his face.

"There's _no way_ ," he hissed to himself, hands clenching the counter fiercely. He'd pictured Derek while another guy was trying to get him off. Not only that, the other guy was doing _nothing_ for him. That couldn't be right. But when he thought of Derek….of calculating hands moving against him and lips dragging down his stomach…his body caught on fire.

 _'No!'_ he protested mentally, snapping his eyes open and glaring at his own reflection. Derek would not have this much power over him. There was no way Stiles needed a memory of Derek to get off. Or even get up for that matter.

Pulling the door open with more force then necessary, Stiles marched towards his computer. Porn. Porn could fix this. Porn always worked for him.

Just about cracking his keys, he quickly opened a video and angrily threw his hand in his pants. Five minuets passed. Then ten. Fifteen.

Stiles let out a groan in frustration. _Nothing._

Begrudgingly, he scrolled through a few videos and then paused on one. The guy had dark hair and dark stubble, his build was similar to…feeling began to pulse in his no longer limp member.

"You've got to be kidding me," he just about whined. Grinding his teeth, he stared at the screen for a good minuet before moving his cursor. "Fuck it." He pressed play. The voice was off, but he turned the sound down just enough to where it didn't make much difference and started moving his hand. Nothing happened at first, and part of him was relieved. He ignored the other part of him that sent a small twinge of, regret was it? Now he was aggravated and his strokes became more harsh and sharp. Then his mind drifted back to being on the desk.

The ice. The burn. His hands. Everything.

Heat surged inside his body and the air seemed to grow thicker.

 _'Stiles.'_ He could here Derek's voice whispering out his name and almost feel the brush of stubble across his neck. His member twitched at the memory of that haunting smirk and damned chuckle.

.  
.  
.

Labored breathing filled the quiet of his apartment as he lay slumped on the couch. Through the haze in his head, his eyes went wide. He. Had just. Jacked off. To Derek fucking Hale. Not only that, but it had been the best orgasam he'd had in weeks.

He stumbled towards the bathroom and cleaned himself up. For the second time that night he gripped the edge of the sink and stared at his reflection. He looked positively wrecked.

"I'm so screwed."

 

\------------------------------------------------------------

"So how did it go last night with, what-was-his-name-again?" Scott asked with waggling eyebrows, elbow hitting against his side suggestively. Stiles laughed and pushed his friend away.

"It was fine," Stiles drawled. _If by fine you mean horribly and embarrassingly bad, then yeah, it was fine._ Scott looked at him with an inquisitive glance, his head tilting slightly to the side. But he didn't press, and Stiles blessed him for that.

"Shut up and grab a controller. You still owe me at least two rounds." He was also thankful that Scott's attention span was about as big as a puppy's. So they just spent the entire day shooting each other and shouting obscenities without bringing up last night a second time. All in all, a definite win.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

Two nights later he had his biggest lead he'd had in months. There was a gala event down at one of the large hotels and he'd been informed certain politicians and major corporations suspected of being involved in a money laundering scandal would be in attendance. He pulled on his bow tie one last time and glanced over himself in the mirror. He didn't look too bad. The cloths were loose enough that he looked like an underpaid member of catering staff, but not shabby enough that he didn't look believable.

He was filling in for a sick waiter who happened to be extremely hung over from drinking too much the night before. Huh. Wonder how that could have happened?

Stepping out of the restroom, he headed down the hall to the kitchens to start for the night. He quickly adjusted the camera under his sleeve before picking up a tray of Champaign.

 _'Alright. Back straight and smile on. You can do this.'_ He'd practiced in his room for hours with a cookie sheet and plastic cups full of water. Grant it that it took at least three hours before he could walk without looking like the tray was having an aneurism, much to Scott's enjoyment.

When he entered the main lobby, the room was already beginning to fill with guests. Movie stars and members of the inordinately rich were dressed to the nines. You could feel the wealth dripping from their Rolexes and five hundred dollar hairdos. Every tux was well tailored and sharp, and every dress that wasn't glittering with some kind of stone was billowing with fabric.

His face, thankfully, didn't betray him and he started making his rounds. Quietly he went about the room offering drink and refreshment, all the while keeping an eye out for his targets. Two of the politicians had arrived, but they were cautious not to be seen together for more then a quick hello.

"I'll take two," a familiar baritone said beside him.

 _'You've got to be shitting me.'_ Stiles stomach slammed against the floor and his heart rate jolted. Please don't be him. He spun around, cautious of the drinks in hand, but still a bit off kilter. There it was, the stubble, the eyebrows, and that god damned smirk. It was unmistakably him. Derek Hale.

"Of course sir," Stiles gritted out, forcing himself to stay as professional as possible. There it was again, that smirk. Stiles poorly covered up his glare as Derek took two glasses and made his way towards a gorgeous strawberry blonde number. For a second Stiles thought knew what it felt like to be straight. She was jaw dropping, sporting an elegant pink Dior dress (one of the guy's he'd hooked up with in college had been a fashion major and all he'd talked about for an hour was Christian Dior and had showed him picture after picture. But he was hot and a decent lay, so it wasn't too much of a loss.) Looking closer, he noticed her arm was linked on someone else's. And then the moment was gone. Peter was here too. Even better….

_'Stay focused. Get the pictures then sneak into the security room when the CEO's sneak off into the conference room and get a copy of the tape. Simple. You can do this.'_

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

 

Finally, after two hours and three speeches his target started making their way towards the conference rooms. His arm was a bit tired from holding up tray after tray and carting it around the room, but the service had moved to the back and was mostly cleaning up and refilling the bar every now and then. Stiles slipped from the room, unnoticed by anyone in the room.

Well…mostly anyone.

Carefully, he made his way down the hall, keeping his head straight and looking busy enough that no one stopped him for looking suspicious.

In under ten minuets he successfully slipped into the security office unnoticed. He'd waited until the guard got up to relieve himself before he made his move. If his information was correct, he had about two to five minuets until the guy returned. Luckily for Stiles, he didn't need that long.

Stealthily, he pulled out a hard drive from his pocket and slipped it into the port. In one click the program started instantly and Stiles couldn't help but smile. If Danny had taught him anything, he knew how to hack. Twenty seconds later there was a soft beep from the computer and now all that was left was to download the footage of is targets in the conference room and he was off. When he pulled out the flash drive, he glanced at the clock and grinned. Thirty seconds to spare.

"Given up late night rooftop lurking, Mr. Stilinski?" Stiles jolted back in shock at the voice behind him and spun on his heel. Peter Hale was leaned casually against the doorframe, grinning at the heart attack he'd just caused.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" He refused to acknowledge that his voice jumped up at least three octaves when he said it.

"I should be asking you the same question. Seeing as the Hale company owns this hotel, which would put you in my security office. You should be thanking me actually, I just called the guard and told him to take a break." The door clicked shut with a finality that sent Stiles stomach to the ground. Fuck. Peter moved closer, poised like he was stalking prey. Fighting against his instinct to curl into himself, Stiles forced his back straight and glared defiantly into the older mans eyes. Two, three steps and he was an arms reach away. Stiles held eye contact, refusing to back off, but he couldn't keep himself from pulling at his hands.

Peter glossed over him, trademark Hale smirk broadening.

"What's the matter Stiles? You seem jittery. Do I make you uncomfortable" Peter leaned in closer, his breath ghosting on Stiles' skin. His heart rate skyrocketed with anxiety. Peter was a wild card. He could never read what he was after and he was nearly impossible to predict. But no matter what he had in mind, Stiles knew he wasn't going to like it. Not. One. Bit.

Peter took a finial step forward and leaned down towards the boys face.

"Why don't you go back to your little strawberry blonde number? Wont she be missing you?" The older Hale paused inches from his face before wrapping his hand around Stiles' waist and pulling foreword.

"What's the matter Stiles? Are you jealous?" His memory flickered back to the silky hair and captivating smile before letting his own grin slip past his stone expression.

"How ever did you know?" Peter pulled back and studied Stiles face with an unamused glare, "No really, I think you've converted me. Bang up job doing it too. I thought I was going to be gay forever." Peter's hand fell from his waist and the man stepped back, much to Stiles relief. But before Stiles could process, Peter's hand shot out to his pocket and snatched the flash drive.

"Hey!" Stiles shouted, lunging for the drive, but was stopped by Peter's hand.

"How about a deal?" Stiles eyed him warily, shifting at the sudden change in the mans tone and complete left turn from their conversation."You, obviously, want this information and I'm not too terribly willing to give it to you." Stiles stared with a bored expression, his eye brows shooting up an inch when Peter paused for dramatic effect. He motioned forward impatiently for Peter to continue and cut the dramatics. Peter's grin turned into a leering smile, teeth glinting off of the lights of the security screens. Stiles heartbeat picked up. This couldn't be good…

"What are you getting at?"

"Get on your knees and convince me. Make me believe it, and it's yours" Stiles cheeks burned at the suggestion and he stepped back in surprise. Like hell he would. Stiles eyes were defiant and his chin stuck out.

"And if I say no?" Peter's gaze darkened playfully. No, not good at all.

"Then you'll go home empty handed." Stiles forced himself to keep his poker face on. Peter couldn't know about the cameras. The video would have been the cherry, but he had enough to get paid with the photo's he'd snapped over the course of the evening. Not only that, but even if Peter did keep the flash drive, the program he'd bugged into their system automatically deleted itself. It was untraceable. But this was too easy. There was no way Peter was just going to let him walk out of the room without trying something. But how could he get out? Sound the alarm, distract him, throw something?

"You're stalling again Mr. Stilinski," Peter cut into his inner monologue. Testing his luck, Stiles tried to take a direct approach and started simply walking forward. Maybe the solution wasn't that complex.

"I'm gonna have to go with no then. So, I'll be on my way." He was, surprisingly, almost to the door before he actually had any hopes of this plan actually working. Just a few more steps then he would bolt down the hall and make it to safety. An arm shot out in front of him just as his fingers touched the handle. Irritation bubbled in his chest, but his heart jerked into overtime. He had to stay calm. "Now what?"

"Hm, you didn't think I'd let you leave so easy? How about we raise the stakes a bit?" Peter's hand shot out and expertly pulled the camera from his wrist.

"Hey!" Stiles protested, hand scampering after Peter's to reclaim his property. _'Bastard!'_ Peter pulled the camera above his head and dangled it teasingly.

"Ah, ah," Peter tutted, hand going in front of Stiles, "Now I think the incentive is strong enough. Let's try this again."

Stiles fist swung out in rage. Peter dodged it with unnerving ease, catching the fist and spinning Stiles so his face slammed against a nearby wall. Pain erupted in his cheek at the impact and he let out a grunt. A chest pressed against his back and Peter's grip tightened around his twisted arm behind him.

"Now, that wasn't part of the game."

"Fuck you!" A knee roughly pressed between his legs, spreading them apart as a hand began to trail up the buttons on his shirt.

"Is this how you reacted to my nephew?" Peter's breath ghosted over his ear just before a shudder ran though is body at the sensation of teeth on his skin.

"You gonna drug me again?"

"No," he chuckled, "I like you better cognitive."

Teeth clamped around the junction in his neck, not hard enough to break skin, but _fuck_ it was enough to hurt like a bitch. A crippled protest lurched out of Stiles' mouth, coming out more as a choking moan really. Peter released his hold and let out a satisfied hum. The hand that had been playing with the buttons on his shirt trailed down to the crotch of his pants.

"Peter," a sharp voice snapped from the doorway.

 _'Oh, thank god.'_ The hand rubbing him through his briefs stilled as the man behind him let out a jaded sigh before he pulled away entirely.

"Always spoiling the fun," he sighed, "Maybe next time. Right Stiles?" He didn't wait for a response and swerved past his nephew and down the hall where his shoes slowly tapped until they were out of range.

Stiles pulled and prodded at his shirt to readjust himself to look at least mildly presentable. He kept his back to Derek, whom he knew as still at the door and more then likely staring daggers into him. If tucking in a few creases and buttoning a few buttons staved off having to face the intimidating Hale, he welcomed it with open arms.

"You should really call someone about your uncle," Stiles jibed, voice not holding as much humor as he would have liked. His hand found it's way to the the wrist Peter had been clutching and he rubbed at it unconsciously, "I think he might be at a clinical level. Code red."

Hands slammed violently against the wall in front of him sending a sharp jolt through his body. Spinning around he found himself caged by two very tense arms attached to one very angry Hale. Potent green eyes bore into him with a gaze that just skirted the range of homicidal. And jesus those eyebrows, if looks could kill… Stiles sucked in a breath, ignoring how his nostrils flared and his inhale dragged on longer then usual. Derek's gaze flickered down to Stiles, now very open mouth, then locked back into Stiles wide, very dilated brown eyes.

Nothing. He had no snappy comeback or even a sentence that would makes its way out of his mouth. When Derek began to shift closer, Stiles broke from his mental game of tug a war and blinked away the blank haze in his head.

"Well would you look at the time?" Stiles breathed lamely, curving his body to make an attempt at sliding out from the brooding figure above him. A firm hand gripped his arm and held him in place while the other moved his head to the side. Yeah, there wasn't much of a hope that was going to work anyways. Refusing to make eye contact, Stiles eyes flitted about the room as he stuttered excuses and tried to will away the heaviness in the air.

"You're in my security office." Yeah, no, this wasn't going to go anywhere good.

"Funny story about that, it's the craziest thing really-," Stiles sucked in a breath at the sudden thumb grazing across the bite impression Peter had left on his shoulder. Derek's eyes darkened at he let out a grin as he pulled an object out of his pocket.

His camera. Damn it! When had he gotten it from Peter? Automatically his arm made to grab it, but of course, Derek was faster. His torso moved forward so it was flush against Stiles' body, effectively pinning him to the wall.

"Get off me!"

"How about we-,"

"I swear to God if you say make a deal,bargain, or trade, I'll knee you in the balls. No doubt about it, you and your uncle are clearly related." There was a shift in Derek's posture that moved from playful to predatory. It looks like Derek doesn't quite fancy being compared to his uncle. Stiles stored that note away for future use.

"I was going to say move this to a more comfortable location, but since you're so keen on running that mouth of yours," Derek's hand trailed, effectively, down Stiles arm while the other waved the camera in the air. "You can have the camera, all you have to do is take it from the table."

Instead of jumping to grab the camera, Stiles glared suspiciously at Derek. No way it was that simple. The camera was placed on the desk just behind Derek, who now stood expectantly in front of Stiles. Five feet away. That's it. It could have been five miles for all the good it did.

"Take it," Derek took a step forward, his hand moving to Stiles abused neck causing the younger man's adams apple to bob nervously. Stiles took a tentative step forward, earning him a step forward from Derek that nearly had their bodies pressed against each other (again).

"I'm just going to-," Stiles began, but was cut off with Derek's mouth pressed against his in a deep, and a almost painfully slow kiss. The hand on his neck migrated up to the back of his head, securing his head in place, while the other moved down to grab his lower back and press them together at the hips. Stiles was all but drunk off of Derek's tongue by the time Derek pulled his head back.

"What's the matter Stiles?" That smirk. That horrible, irking smirk that haunted his waking dreams. Not that he was dreaming of Derek Hale. _Absolutely not._ A sharp grind of Derek's hips pulled him from his internal monologue and pulled a strangled moan from his throat. If he wasn't rock hard already, that definitely did the trick.

"Did you miss me that much?" Derek chuckled darkly. An aggravated grunt was his only response. Impulsively Stiles gripped Derek's suit jacked, catching him off guard, and spun the stubbled man around until he was against the wall. Instantly Stiles' mouth was on his with a demanding fervor.

Then as fast as it had started, Stiles pulled back and darted to the table. Derek almost looked alarmed.

"Looks like I win," he taunted with a shit eating grin before taking off out the door and down the hall in a spurt of adrenaline. Rounding the corner, he rammed into a solid mass of suit and Hale.

 _'Oh, of fucking course!'_ He groaned to himself.

"I'd watch yourself Mr. Stilinski. Running around these halls in that state is more than enough invitation for someone to take advantage of." Peter's eyes moved around his body and down to his, very obvious, boner with a smirk. His fingers grazed against the bite mark he'd put earlier, and his smirk turned into a terrifying leer. Stiles jerked away and slipped around him, ignoring the flush on his cheeks, and continued down the hall until he found a employee entrance and darted inside to find the bathroom.

With a click the lock on the door secured and he slid down the wall with shaky legs.

_'These Hales are going to be the death of me.'_

 

\--------------------------------------------------------

 

It had taken him a good fifteen minuets to calm himself down and readjust his cloths to look at least somewhat presentable. When he'd come back, the supervisor was none to happy and threatened to dock his pay. Not that it really mattered. But he was now assigned to clean up duty. Aka, garbage, bathroom, and floor mopping.

He'd been making his way to the dumpsters, for the fortieth time that night, when someone barreled into him.

With Stiles lack of balance being a natural state, they both ended up sprawled across the bags of trash in seconds. Sitles, of coarse, landed on the bag of glass bottles. _Ow._

"Awe come on!" He cured, head jerking his head to the attacker. What he found was not at all what he'd expected. Instead of some crazed mugger, he found a girl about his age clutching her stomach, which was oozing blood, and looking desperately at him.

"Please," she gasped, taking her free hand and clutching his sleeve. Stiles instantly pulled himself from the pile of garbage and moved towards her.

"Jesus, are you okay? I'm going to call an ambulance." But the girls hand only gripped his sleeve tighter. Stiles had pulled his phone out and dialed "9" before the arm on his sleeve jerked him down. Jesus this chick was strong for someone with a hole in their stomach. She removed her hand from her wound, which was still bleeding at a dizzying pace, and pulled something out of her pocket.

"Get this to Derek Hale. It has to go to Derek Hale," she ground out in desperation through clenched teeth. In her hand was a small black flash drive. Stiles glanced back and forth between the girl and the drive.

"What are you talking about? Why are you giving it to me? Hey!" Stiles yelled as the girl's eyes began to roll into the back of her head and body fell forward. In a frantic jolt, Stiles was barely able to catch her before hitting the cement. Her breathing was shallow and the blood…Jesus the blood. She still managed to lift her arm and shove the black flash drive into Stiles pocket.

"You can't let them find it," she demanded before sucking in a pained breath and going limp.


End file.
